POEMS 



S. C MERCER 




Book, M247 -&- 



Gpight}!". 



COPyRIGHT DEPOSIT 




S. C. MERCER 



POEMS 



S. C MERCER 



Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito 

—Virgil 



LOUISVILLE 
JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY 

INCORPORATED 

1908 






|U6HAKY of OONtiRESSj 

^ OCT 9 _. \>i^^ I 



Copyright, 1908, 

BY 

S. C. MERCER 



FOREWORD. . 

The poems here collected are in the main reprints of 
pieces that originall)'- appeared in various newspapers and 
periodicals, beginning with the Louisville Journal in the 
late '50s. This newspaper was at that time edited by the 
brilliant George D. Prentice, my personal friend, who a few 
years after I had left college offered me the assistant editor- 
ship of his paper. The imperative duty which at that time 
I owed to others forced me to decline this offer, although 
for many years I wrote editorials and verses for this then 
powerful and widely read journal. Many of the poems 
here collected have appeared in the columns of the Louis- 
ville daily papers and have been copied in other journals, 
North and South, and in poetic collections. Others were 
first printed in the Nashville Press and Times, of which I 
was editor during my two terms as Public Printer of Tennes- 
see, during the administrations of Military Governor Andrew 
Johnson and of Governor Brownlow in the days of Recon- 
struction. 

It will be noticed that the partisan poems breathe the 
spirit of the times in which they were written — the stormy 
'60s — ^but I have not thought it wise to change their tone, 

iii 



FOREWORD. 

they being now only the record of a long-since departed 
day. There has been some controversy as to the author- 
ship of the poem "The Angel of the Hospital," owing to 
a manuscript copy of this poem being found on the body 
of a young Confederate officer killed in one of the battles 
in Georgia, and from which the poem was reprinted in many 
of the Southern newspapers. I had previously, however, 
printed it in the Louisville Journal, and as newspapers 
were scarce in the South at that time, the unfortunate 
youth must have copied the verses before passing the 
newspaper on to his comrades. 

The Author. 
Hopkinsville, June 30, 1908. 



INDEX 

FAas 

The Two Kentuckians i 

The Hunter's Last Ride 6 

The Old Rock Spring lo 

A Lyric for Lilian . n 

The Strawberry Bowl 12 

Hymn 18 

John Morgan and His Men 19 

The Whippoorwill 24 

The New South 25 

A Fever Dream 26 

Major Bassett's Chase 29 

The Ten Brothers 31 

Echo River 33 

The Angel of the Hospital 36 

The Two Singers 39 

Battle of Mill Spring 41 

The Greek Slave 42 

Ode to Impudence 44 

My Birthday . . 48 

Battle of Nashville 49 

Blonde and Brunette 53 

Gray and Blue 54 

Bishop Dudley's Dirge 55 

The Dress Circle 56 

v 



INDEX. 

PAGK 

In Memoriam 60 

The Sorrows of Hinda and Kleinfelter 61 

Dr. John A. Broaddus 65 

To Leonora . 67 

At His Post 69 

Reconciliation 71 

Ophelia 74 

Death of the Seasons 76 

New Year Ode, 1861 78 

Monody 83 

Washington's Birthday Ode 86 

To April 87 

Ode on the Death of Leo XIII 88 

Chiabrera's Epitaph 90 

Elegy 91 

To the Law and Order League 92 

"With Thy Shield, or Upon It" 94 

Confirmation at St. Andrew's 96 

The Christmas Flower 98 

To the Soldiers of General Dumont's Command 99 

The Two Gordons 100 

The Westfield Home 105 

The Harp in the Air; or a Night with Gerardi in Seelbach's 

Roof-garden 107 

Dedication Hymn 109 

L)^ng in State at Princeton no 

In the Morning 113 



POEMS 



POEMS 



S. C. MERCER 




THE TWO KENTUCKIANS. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN— Fourteenth President of the United States; born in 
Hardin County, Ky., February 12, iScg ; assassinated in Ford's Theater, April 16, 1865. 

JEFFERSON DAVIS- First and last President of the Southern Confederacy; 
born in Christian County, Ky. , June 3, 1808; died in New Orleans, December 6, 1889. 

The sky of the Southland with grief is o'ercast; 
Bitter tears down the cheeks of the brave trickle fast ; 
The moss-streamered oaks of Beauvoir bow their head — 
Their Master is fallen, their Chieftain is dead. 
Wake, soldier, who liest outstretched on thy bier: 
Does the warwhoop of Black Hawk not startle thy eari^ 
Seest thou not the long Mexican lancers' array 
At dark Buena Vista rush fierce to the fray? 

Hapless Mexican Cavalry! great was your scath 
As you fearlessly charged down that Angle of Death. 
The manes of the chargers like meteors streamed. 
Like rainbows far-flashing the gay pennons gleamed ; 



THE TWO KENTUCKIANS. 

Like lightning from Heaven Davis brandished his sword 

And fierce was the volley his riflemen poured; 

They reel in their saddles, they topple and fall, 

The flag of the cavalcade turns to a pall, 

Its ghostly Commander is the skeleton Death— 

The fair rose of Mexico shrinks in his breath. 

They halt — they retreat — in wild tumult they run, 

The eagle soars victor — Buena Vista is won. 

Hearken, O spangled Cavaliers, to that dread warning cry 

Which like the trump of Judgment is sounding from the sky- 

" Remember cruel Alamo's foul massacre and die!" 

Lo her avengers, Taylor, Davis, Hardin, McKee, and Clay! 

Abundant sacrifice went up in smoke of battle gray. 

So were thy Manes appeased, brave Crockett, on that day, 

Thy phantom sped from Alamo to cheer that bloody fray. 

Our troops on that field by their valor and scars 

Added stars to our flag's constellation of stars, 

And Buena Vista's immaculate name 

Like a beacon-fire burns in the temple of fame. 

Weep, daughters of Mexico, for lover and spouse, 

Hang crepe on the door of each desolate house, 

Long, long shall the maidens of Anahuac mourn 

For their fallen defenders who shall never return. 

Once, in Senate encounter, in battle's fierce brunt. 

Thy plume, like Navarre's, streamed full high in the front. 

Thou wast once, like Scotch Bruce, of inflexible will. 

Unyielding, though conquered, and resolute still. 

In field or in council, with sword, tongue or pen, 

The molder of ideas, the leader of men. 

Clay — ^ Webster — Oh, Chief, are thy pulses unstirred 

When the mighty debate in the Senate is heard? 

Hark, vSumter's loud tocsin! Saw the world e'er the like? 

For Freedom and Union and Southland they strike. 

Grant, Meade, Lee and Thomas like Titans engage, 

And the Lost Cause departs like a ghost from the stage. 

'Tis past, like a dream of the dawning in air, 
For thee, the world's pageant of Vanity Fair. 
All faded — those phantoms and dreams of the past. 
And crepe ties the flag as it falls to the mast. 



THE TWO KENTUCKIANS. 

The dirge wails its sorrow to dead ears in vain; 
The pallbearers ' flag is the flag of the train. 
The traveler 's baggage lies all in one chest, 
Whose check is a coffin plate lettered "At Rest." 
And Metairie's vault opes its dark, narrow berth 
For the cold, pallid earth which returns to the earth. 

As I rode o 'er the mountain I saw not how high 

Its pine-covered summit ascended the sky. 

*Twas a mere undulation that rose from the plain — 

But, as journeying on, I beheld it again, 

The veil of Omnipotence spread like a shroud 

On its brow, that looked down on the loftiest cloud. 

So our lives were too near to those lives which expired 

When the battle of freedom our continent fired. 

To measure their valor and virtue aright — 

Our vision is dim when too close to the light. 

Thou, Lincoln, sad martyr, just, generous, brave; 
A hero of heroes Omnipotence gave 
To mortals in molding thy gaunt, rugged face; 
Like Cromwell, no smooth dilettante in grace; 
But counting all power, glory, life itself, naught. 
Till the duty assigned thee by Heaven was wrought. 

O voice of humanity whose exquisite tone 
Like the moan of the sea breathed a sadness its own — • 
As the sea mourns the infinite dead 'neath its waves. 
So mourned his great soul for war's infinite graves- 
How oft did the widow and orphan rejoice 
In the counsel and sympathy toned in that voice; 
Where sorrow abounded did his love more abound. 
Like the hand of a woman who nurses a wound. 
Like the lullaby sung to a babe at the breast 
Till singer and sufferer sink to sweet rest; 
It cheered the bruised hearts of the children of toil 
Like the summer-night-dew which refreshes the soil; 
Like the Lamb of Redemption he went to the cross 
And our infinite gain was secured by his loss. 

No vision of conquest could lead him astray 
No sectional bias waved false lights in his way. 
Stem duty, as he saw it, confronted his eyes; 



THE TWO KENTUCKIANS. 

And the future passed judgment at its solemn assize: 

"The Union which Washington won by his sword 

"I have sworn to preserve, 'tis my vow to the Lord. 

"Should the temple he built by my treachery burn, 

"My name would all ages indignantly spurn, 

"My honor be scorned, my oath be forsworn, 

"And my name from the roster of Patriots be torn. 

"This Union so fair asunder to rend, 

"No patriot has sworn — I've an oath to defend, 

" 'The Last Sigh of the Moor' is a voice not in vain, 

"For the mother who bore him scorned Boabdil of Spain. 

The ages have brought forth no kinder than he 

His soul, like the broad, irresistible sea. 

Was a blending of majesty, sweetness and grace, 

Himself he forgot in his love for his race. 

The truths which he uttered all time will applaud. 

For his lips caught their flame from the altar of God. 

Who can love in this life, and yet truly be wise? 
Who can hate, and still see with unprejudiced eyes? 
Our passions envelop our visions with mist; 
Their whirlwinds transport us wherever they list. 
To tenderly love and judge all hearts aright 
Belongs to One only — the Father of Light, 
Who sits on the throne with white radiance burning — 
In whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning. 

Fallen, fallen, is the storm-shattered oak of the South; 

Fallen, fallen, is the strong, stately pine of the North; 

One combatant loses, another one wins — 

God have mercy on both and forgive them their sins. 

And if a man conquer, or if he should lose, 

'Tis naught if the Great Judge His mercy refuse. 

And now, all unheeding earth's praises or blame. 
Thy two sons, Kentucky, repose in their fame. 
The victor struck down while the jubilant cheer 
Of honor and victory rang in his ear; 
The vanquished, who suffered in silence his lot. 
When the empire and glory he dreamed of were not. 
New Orleans and Springfield have taken to rest 
Two children, Kentucky, who nursed at thy breast. 



THE TWO KENTUCKIANS 

Oh, Hardin and Christian, the homes of the great 
Forgetfulness veils, through the satire of fate, 
While fame blazons far to the ends of the earth 
The log huts which gave to your progeny birth. 
The leaders of millions lie helpless and lone 
As the soldiers who perished unnoticed, unknown. 
Take them tenderiy, dear Mother Earth, to thy breast. 
To sleep in their "windowless palace of rest." 

I hear, as I stand, pressed with grief, by your graves, 

A murmur, soft, strong, as of waves upon waves; 

And memory's harp, with its mystical strings. 

Recalls, with the sweeping of infinite wings, 

How precious that flag by our fathers unfuried — 

White flower of charity, light of the world. 

Float ever, proud banner of freedom sublime. 

Till the judgment's last trump sounds the ending of time. 

The Christmas Eve bells were all ringing aloud, 

When I dreamed that I saw on God's bow in the cloud — 

Its red like the rose dawn of Easter's bright day 

Its blue like the love that abideth for aye; 

Its gold the reflection of Paradise street; 

Its white the effulgence of God 's mercy seat — 

An Angel, calm, radiant, of presence august. 

The great, golden balance of mercy adjust; 

And millions of martyrs on battlefields slain, 

Like the voice of the ocean, repeated the strain: 

'^O, States of the Union, all warfare shall cease; 
Christ lifts o 'er the nation the banner of peace, 
As the prism-banded bow of the sky stanched the flood 
Its earth-child, the flag, ends the deluge of blood. 
War's death-dealing cloud has forever rolled by, 
And Peace, with her olive branch, smiles from the sky 
Forever is silenced dissension s wild roar; 
The demon of hate rends the Union no more." 
And, lo ! the bells answered from valley and hill : 
"Peace, peace upon earth, to all men of good- will!" 



THE HUNTER'S LAST RIDE. 

[We rode for hours, the day following, in the track of the fire which had swept 
the vast prairies as far as the eye could reach with utter desolation, finding on several 
occasions the charred remains of animals which had perished in the flames, and in one 
instance those of an unfortunate hunter and his horse, — Brissot's Western Travels, 
Vol. II.] 

One autumn eve, when clouds unfurled 

Swept down the west in bannered splendor, 

And dying sunset bathed the world 

In dolphin rainbows, mild and tender, 

As if the sun in heaven afar 

Lingered to greet the Evening Star, 

Mingling his glance of clearer light 

With the first radiance of the night, 

And in the twilight, tarrying late, 

Unwilling passed the western gate; 

A hunter, wearied with the chase. 

With his spent steed was slowly turning 

Unto his far-off resting place, 

Where his lone campfire light was burning — 

For many a mile his steed had gone 

O 'er the wide prairie since the dawn. 

The choice bits from the saddle hung. 

The deer's fat haunch, the buffalo's tongue, 

A simple but a sweet repast 

To cheer his long and painful fast. 

Slow paced the strong but weary steed 

Of spacious chest and lightning speed, 

A coal black of the Norman breed 

Who ne'er had failed in time of need; 

A creature full of strength and grace. 

The noblest of his noble race 

In toil, in battle, or the chase, 

To hunt the bear on mountain side, 

To chase the deer o 'er prairie wide, 

Or dash upon the ambuscade 

Of wily Indian foe arrayed. 

Or plunge through winter's deepest snow, 

Or breast the torrent's swiftest flow. 




BIRTHPLACE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS 

Fairview, Christian County, Kentucky 



THE HUNTER'S LAST RIDE. 

To huntsman who has borne the toil, 
Welcome the rest, and sweet the spoil; 
So mused McGregor in his mind. 
Leading his steed, when far behind, 
Upon his startled ears there came 
A rushing sound of distant flame — 
A long, hoarse murmuring, sullen sound, 
As when an earthquake shakes the ground. 
Or the volcano 's voice of wrath 
Warns all to leave the lava's path. 
A moment scarce he turned his head. 
Too well he knew that sound of dread, 
A moment — and McGregor saw 
A sight to chill his soul with awe; 
Behind him, hastening onward came 
A long, red serpent line of flame. 
Which, hissing, shot its tongues of light 
Upward into the gathering night, 
While midway 'twixt the earth and sky- 
Like a death-angel hovering by. 
The smoke pall rolled in volumes dread, 
The awful banner of the dead. 
Quickly the burden was untied — 
"Now, Saladin!" the huntsman cried, 
"Now, Saladin, my gallant steed, 
Attest thyself of noble breed, 
For never yet thy matchless speed 
Has served us in so sore a need. 
And never in the fiercest chase 
Hast thou e'er made so dread a race 
As this wild fight for life or death 
From yon fire-demon's scorching breath " 

With nostrils spread and pointed ear, 

And eye of fierceness, not of fear, 

A moment brief, Saladin halted. 

While to his seat his rider vaulted, 

A moment snuffed the hot flame's breath, 

The stifling atmosphere of death; 

A moment shook his streaming mane, 

Then sped like lightning o 'er the plain — 

Fly! Not for one brief moment stay — 

Fly, for thy life — away, away! 



THE HUNTER'S LAST RIDE. 

Stretch every muscle — sinew — fly ! 

To pause one moment is to die ! 

Weary and worn and spent with pain, 

The struggling steed bounds o 'er the plain 

Each iron sinew vainly straining; 

The fire upon his path is gaining; 

The mad flame brighter and brighter glows, 

The fatal circle smaller grows, 

And hotter, fiercer, wilder, higher. 

Leap the red demons of the fire. 

The wild-eyed herd of buffaloes came 

Impetuous plunging through the flame; 

The antelopes in terror flying, 

On fleetest limbs in vain relying; 

The grouse fly round on whirring wings. 

Then blindly seek their funeral fires; 

The rattlesnake in anguish springs, 

Pierced with its own fang — writhes — expires. 

Long howls the wolf in dismal yell, 

Such as might shake the caves of hell, 

And many a wild, despairing cry 

Of brutes in mortal agony 

Falls thickly on McGregor's ear, 

In wailings ominous and drear. 

'Tis on him — now at last, 
Encircled by the fiery blast, 
McGregor stands 
With folded hands. 
Firm as a martyr when he braves 
The rack, the faggot, or the waves. 
Exhausted, panting, foaming, gasping. 
As though an iron band were clasping 
His laboring chest, Saladin sank 
With quivering side and streaming flank. 
While his pale rider rent the air 
With one sad groan of deep despair. 
Red rose the fire-cave 's crackling arch, 
Red rose the lurid walls around him, 
The hungry flames his pulses parch. 
And like a boa 's coils have bound him. 

8 



THE HUNTER'S LAST RIDE 

The buffalo 

In dying throe, 

With furious hoof the hunter paws; 

The wolf with howl 

And shriek and growl 

In his red life's blood bathes his jaws, 

And rends his limbs apart, 

And the expiring panther gnaws 

His palpitating heart, 

As if the long revenge they cherish 

Were eased if their old foe might perish. 

By the red moon's ghostly light. 
Struggling through the murky vail, 
Dripping and dank with tears of night, 
And chill mist casting shadows pale, 
A voice of sorrow seems to wail, 
A fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone. 
Thrilling the pained air with its moan. 
As if some Ariel unsleeping, 
A death watch in the sky was keeping. 
His harp of tears in pity sweeping: 
"Rest, huntsman! from thy final chase. 
Rest, Saladin! from thy last, long race. 
Horseman and horse they both have gone; 
Dying with all their armor on. 
And slumbering in their last repose 
Together, circled by their foes." 



THE OLD ROCK SPRING. 

I know not what of sadness- strange, 

Comes over my soul to-day, 
As I think of Time's unceasing change, 

And the friends he has snatched away; 
For Time has turned those locks to gray, 

Which were black as a raven 's wing, 
Of the boys and girls who used to play, 

Around the Old Rock Spring. 



II. 

Strange voices whisper from its depths, 

The tones of a far church bell, 
A sweet soprano 's melody 

A parting friend's farewell, 
And phantoms flutter o'er its waves. 

Pale brides with wreath and ring ; 
Then vanish like the bubbles that burst 

On the face of the Old Rock Spring. 



III. 

Why die the beautiful and strong? 

Why does the great oak fall? 
Why fades the rose? These fleeting drops 

Of water outlive them all : 
Snow, rain or mist — around the world 

They sweep on tireless wing, 
Then fall like mother nature's tears, 

On the breast of the Old Rock Spring. 



IV. 

"How soon we are forgotten clean 
When we are gone," quoth Rip, 

We perish and the stream of death 
Engulfs the proudest ship; 




BIRTHPLACE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

Hardin County, Kentucky 



A LYRIC FOR LILIAN. 

Gone! — like a faded, broken plume 

Dropped from an eagle's wing, 
Or pebble tossed by a sportive child, 

In the depths of the Old Rock Spring. 

V. 

Some in silence and some in strife. 

Friends, passed to the dim Unknown, 
In manhood 's prime or the mom of life, 

And I am left alone; 
In vain do I essay a song. 

On a harp with broken string, 
While the hot tears trickle down my cheeks, 

And fall in the Old Rock Spring. 



A LYRIC FOR LILIAN- 

I Bring Thes a Garland. 

I bring thee a garland, O, violet-eyed maid 

Its exquisite bloom in thy dark locks, I braid. 
Love nourished each flower with a sigh and a tear. 
And the sigh and the tear 
Shall make them more dear. 
And bring them new charms with each vanishing year. 

I fill thee a goblet — 'tis the heart's purest wine. 

Fresh foamed from the wine-press of St. Valentine. 
The Rathskeller holds it which sits in the skies, 

Whose roseate gleaming 

Is bright in its beaming, 
As the love-stars which shine in the heav 'n of thine eyes. 

I bring thee a song, and though humble the strain. 
Love glows in each word of the burning refrain. 
And oh, that its notes were as wild and as sweet 

As the plashing of fountains 

Or horns on the mountains. 
Or songs which thy dear lips in warblings repeat. 



THE STRAWBERRY BOWL 

[A private and confidential Epistle to Sam Gaines, Editor of the Hopkinsville 
New Era. Written for the Kentucky Press Association.] 

God might have made a better berry than the strawberry, but certainly he never 
did. — Izaak Walton, 

Ye Salutation. 

Bring forth the bowl within whose round 

No heart-consuming draught is found, 

But berries glittering with the dew 

Which south winds o 'er the gardens strew, 

Sweet souvenirs of Paradise, 

With cheeks of flame and breath of spice. 

Shedding for one bright hour their glow 

O'er life's long Alpine waste of snow. 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead. 

Who never to himself hath said, 

"O that I owned a strawberry bed?" 

Whose heart hath ne 'er within him burned. 

As he beheld, in cream inumed, 

Great sugared berries, coral red? 

If such there be, go, mark him well; 

Of berries never let him smell, 

Where gathers the church festival 

Or rings the merry marriage-bell; 

Mark him — as thou wouldst mark a steer 

Or swine — by cropping off his ear. 

A WaIvK in the Garden. 

Wake, winds of May, yon emerald waves. 
Crested with flowers, like sea-foam white. 
Where sparkle in their trefoil caves 
Long coral reefs of berries bright; 
Shaped like a gentle maiden 's heart. 
And bleeding as from Cupid 's dart. 
The garden's earliest offering, 
Crown -jewels on the brow of Spring; 
The berry Izaak Walton loved. 
And Downer's perfect taste approved; 



THE STRAWBERRY BOWL. 

Dispensing odors beatific, 
Kentucky, Cumberland, Prolific, 
Sharpless, and Monarch of the West, 
And rare Charles Downing, last and 'best 
Thy leaves, sweet trefoil ! symbols three 
Of Faith and Hope and Love shall be; 
Fair type of Christian hope to all, 
The vine sleeps low 'neath snowy pall ; 
The resurrection blooms in May, 
With flowers and fruits in bright array. 
And soaring larks in countless throng 
Singing their joyful Easter Song, 
And choir of mocking-birds on high 
Gray-plumed sopranos of the sky 

Yn Revel on Olympus. 

Heap high the bowl ! Ages ago 

Before the birth of Faust or Hoe, 

Before New Eras, Posts, and Suns 

Gave specials, paragraphs and puns. 

When only Mercury bore the news 

Around the skies, in winged shoes, 

Such genial revels held the gods, 

Juno and Jove, and other frauds; 

In heaven 's blue crystal urn each night 

The stars, like berries, twinkled bright 

And the Great Dipper skimmed the cream 

Where poured the Milky Way its stream; 

Deserted is the Olympic hill; 

Heaven, stars, girls, strawberries, bless us still 

Ye Invocation. 

Lord, we adore thy matchless bounty 
And grace which, after giving birth 
To sun and moon and stars and earth. 
Gave us a land of rarest worth 
And cast our lot in Christian County! 
'Mid meek-eyed Jerseys, guileless mules, 
Hopkmsville peaches. Public Schools, 
Tobacco farms and gilt-edged bonds, 
Wheat-fields and sheep and fishing-ponds, 



THE STRAWBERRY BOWL. 

Coveys of quail and double barrels, 
Opossums, pheasants, doves and squirrels, 
Damsels whose pamphanescent eyes. 
If stars were quenched would light the skies; 
And for to-night, to make us merry, 
Provided Izaak Walton's berry. 
Ten inches round in lawful measure. 
The garden 's glory, pride and treasure — 
Nor Brenner's brush nor Prentice's pen 
Could tell their worth — and so, Amen ! 

Ye Picnic. 

Fill high the bowl ! In blissful vision 

We wander over fields Elysian, 

Through ever-lengthening colonnades. 

Of whispering elms and beechen shades; 

Grave manhood's cares are cast away, 

And all are boys again, to-day 

By one sure sign we know each other — 

"The strawberry mark! — Our long lost brother!' 

While all discourse on sylvan pipe 

Of golden cream and berries ripe. 

Or sound on Memory 's silver horn, 

"I too was in Arcadia bom!" 

Sooth, 'tis a goodly sight to see 

The revellers' mutual ministry: 

Stanton shall drive the Jersey cow, 

Sam Gaines shall cause her milk to flow, 

Logan shall hold her by the tail. 

And Kelly bear the foaming pail; 

Woodson shall crush the crystal ice, 

Johnston hand spoons, all polished nice. 

The Courier-Journal pass the berries, 

With brisk champagne and golden sherries 

And he shall serve his country best 

Who stores most berries 'neath his vest. 

By shady glen and waterfall 

Our early loves will we recall. 

Maids whom no time can ere eclipse, 

With strawberry cheeks and sugared lips, 

Phantoms which haunt boyhood's dream. 

Life 's fragrant, pure creme de la creme — 

14 



THE STRAWBERRY BOWL. 

Delicious cream, which soured too soon, 
And left us with an empty spoon! 

Ye Pioneer's Wii.d Strawberries. 

Master of the Feast : 

"Father, thy locks are thin and gray. 
Hast thou no legend for us pray? 
Sing of the wild strawberry's flame 
When first Kentucky hunters came." 

Old Pioneer; 

'"Tis nigh on ninety years, I guess. 

By the road called the 'Wilderness' — 

Its story 's told by Captain Speed, 

A little book you all should read — 

We pioneered to Old Kaintuck, 

Woods swarmed with turkey, bear and buck, 

And by the ' Rock Spring ' pitched our tents. 

Them times wild strawberries was immense; 

We didn't pick, we scooped 'em up 

By bushels, with a bowl or cup; 

And when our teams came home at night. 

The critters' legs — they wuz a sight; 

Seemed like they'd swum in bloody seas, 

The red juice splashed above their knees. 

We rode one May-day 'cross the prairie. 

Me and my wife and little Mary; 

Come to a holler in the ground, 

Where lots of strawberries grew around, 

And herds of trampling buffalo 

Made the red juice in rivers flow 

And fill a pool some five foot deep — 

Excuse me, pardners; I must weep — 

Thanks! My throat is a leetle dry — 

God knows I can not tell a lie (Applause) 

Our horses slipped and tumbled in, 

We swum in juice up to the chin; 

A half an hour we rose and sank 

At last we scrambled to the bank; 

Me and my wife soon came around — " 

(Omnes.) "But little Mary?" 

15 



THE STRAWBERRY BOWL. 

"She was drowned!" (Groans) 
"Yes drowned! My stricken heart, be calm! 
Hers is the crown, the harp, the palm — 
Thanks, yes if you insist, a dram. 
Blood flowed them days like strawberry juice 
When Girty let his hell-hounds loose. 
One day some Injin squaws allfired — " 
Master: 

"There, old man, rest. You must be tired. 
Share in our feast, Homeric sire; 
Thanks to the Muse for such a lyre!" 

Ye Silent Toast. 

Fill high to-night the strawberry bowl 
For friendship 's feast and flow of soul. 
Quickly, ere Psyche 's brilliant flight 
Shall vanish in the coming night. 
Soon shall the parting word be spoken, 
Soon friendship's golden bowl be broken; 
Clasp hands and salutation send 
To each true-hearted, absent friend; 
Nor in our circle be forgot 
The masters who before us wrought, 
Titans of memorable days: 
Penn, with his sheathless falchion's blaze, 
Harney, the dauntless, true, and strong. 
And Prentice of the golden song. 
Triad whose still ascending track 
Flings its long rays of splendor back. 

Ye Small Boy's Downfall. — A Sam. 

What spectres from the strawberry bowl 
Flit through the galleries of the soul, . 
With shrill voice crying, "Grieve his heart; 
Come like shadows; so depart!" 
Strawberry cake, preserves, and jam! 
I see thy mild eyes moisten, Sam 
Perchance at memory of the closet 
Where once was stored the rare deposit, 
High ranged upon the topmost shelf, 
A skillful mother's richest pelf. 

i6 



THE STRAWBERRY BOWL. 

I see thee steal, at dead of night, 
With cat-like footsteps, soft and light; 
I see thee open slow the door. 
Peep in, and cautiously explore; 
I see short Sam the boxes pile, 
Humming Longfellow's psalm the while: 
"The heights to which the great have stept, 

Were not attained by sudden flight. 
But they, while their companions slept 

Were toiling upward in the night." 
I hear a sudden scream — a crash — 
I see a candle's fitful flash — 
Tableau — A boy with downfallen breeches, 
Loud sobs and screams and stinging switches. 

Good-night. 

Heap high the bowl and pour the cream ! 
How bright the rosy berries gleam — 
Red fr.uit and Jersey cream upon it, 
The colors of my lady's bonnet. 
In hues like these the western sun 
Descends to rest when day is done; 
And round his flaming couch are rolled 
Bright curtained clouds of red and gold. 
Not greedily the fruit devour; 
Prolong the raptures of the hour; 
Stain not with juice your linen fair, 
And of the "strawberry nose" beware. 
Think of the lovely — the sublime — 
Niagara — California 's clime ; 
The Mammoth Cave — Alaska's shore, 
Where glaciers plunge and billows roar; 
Balance each berry in your spoon, 
Sink back in a delicious swoon, 
And murmur in a Romeo's sigh: 
"I have seen Naples — ^let me die!" 
O, vital sparks of heavenly flame ! 
Whate 'er your lineage, land or name, 
Pink buds which Mother Nature clips 
From infant cherubs' finger tips, 
Or earth-born babies' little toes. 
Tinted like sea-shell or the rose, 

17 



HYMN. 

Or notes from songs of home and love, 
Which floating to the skies above 
Are crystallized in heaven 's pure air 
And turn to crimson berries there — 
Ambrosial fruit of heavenly birth, 
By Ariel 's fingers dropped on earth — 
Come o'er me and possCvSS my soul. 
Sweet spirit of the Strawberry Bowl ! 
For all the world's a strawberry bowl, 
Life the red fruit which fills the brim, 
The daily papers spoon the whole, 
And women are the sugar and cream. 
Melrose Garden, May, 1880. 



HYMN. 

[Sung at the Dedication of the Jeflferson Davis Memorial Church, Fairview, 
Kentucky, November 21, 1886.] 

Inscription on a marble tablet in the wall of the church: 

Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, was born June 3, 1808, on the site of this 

church. He made a gift of the lot March 10, 1886, to the Bethel Baptist 

Church, as a thank-offering to the Lord. 

Jesus,. to thy great name we raise 

A house of penitence and praise, 

A beacon for the wanderers' bark. 

To guide it home through storm and dark. 

Here shall ambition's fever cease, 
Sin's wretched slaves find sweet release, 
And washed in Jordan's cleansing wave 
Rise from the Christian's mystic grave. 

Hence bid our earth-bom cares depart, 
Heal every aching, bleeding heart. 
Dispel the clouds of doubt and dread 
And feed us with thy living Bread. 

Father, Redeemer, Guide and Friend, 
Go with us to our Journey's end, 
Until we hail in Paradise 
The nobler Bethel of the skies. 

18 




GENERAL JOHN H. MORGAN, C. S. A. 



JOHN MORGAN AND HIS MEN. 
Dedicated to Mrs. Basil Duke. 

Wild disorder, uproar, panic, 
Civil war with deeds Satanic 
Break Kentucky's dream — Neutrality — 
Everywhere war's stern reality 
Drum and fife and bugle-playing — 
Terrors breeding; fears allaying — 
For various hopes and fears are rife 
In the wild rage of civil strife; 
When son and sire in contest stand. 
Each loyal to his native land. 
Obeying many-voiced command; 
One loyal to the stripes and stars — 
One faithful to the stars and bars! 



There curls the smoke of burning train ! 
There leaguered stockades fight in vain — 

War glows on hill and glen. 
Fat cattle to the camp are led. 
The farmer mourns his thoroughbred. 
They quickly came, as quickly fled; 
Swift as an Indian arrow sped — 
The Southron's joy, the Federal's dread- 
John Morgan and his men ? 
Loved and obeyed by his command, 
With woman's heart and lion's hand — 
The Sydney of the Southern land 



John Harper's thoroughbreds forsake 
The turf of Woodford's old cane-brake; 
And walnut, oak and hackberry grove. 
To track the bridle paths that rove 
High o 'er the caves of Edmonson — 
The treeless fields without a sun! 
And bear the bold Rough Riders on 
Where trains are seized and treasures won, 

19 



JOHN MORGAN AND HIS MEN 

Dark Echo River's weeping wave 

Shall mourn beneath the warrior's grave, 

The dauntless partisan who rode 

Right on through storm and snow and flood. 

The foe exclaims, "He's here!" "He's there!" 

Vanished like spectres in the air, 

Trackless, save for the empty stall, 

Or smoke wreath rising like a pall 

Over the commissary's store. 

Where hungry comrades loud deplore 

The thunderbolt of Morgan 's raid — 

Chief of th' Invisible Brigade, 

Vanished, like morning rainbow, spun 

By golden distaff of the sun. 

There is bustle and commotion to-night with "Ellen N," 

Fair Ellen, maid of iron stays, beloved of many men. 

From a thousand fertile valleys, from many a teeming glen, 

She bears great stores on laboring trains to Thomas and his men 

The blue-coats down at Nashville have come to do or die. 

To battle for the old flag beneath the Southern sky. 

And to Ellen's welcome ministry — they look most wistfully, 

She bears souvenirs and messages in her capacious trains, 

The maidens of the great Northwest send greetings to their 

swains. 
She has hard-tack, and tobacco, and bacon in her store, 
She has cod-fish and dried beef and gingerbread galore. 
From Keystone, Empire State, from Indiana's plains 
Ellen speeds them all along in her wide flowing trains. 
Bibles and tracts and song-books, and sweet messages from home, 
And prayer-books from every church from Geneva to Rome, 
From many a Western \^alley, from many a quiet glen. 
Comes goodly cheer from the kindly hands of buxom Ellen N. 
There is trouble on your road to-night, O dauntless Ellen N ! 
There is panic, there is hurry — 'tis John Morgan and his men, 
There are bridges burned — the track's ripped up — some one has 

cut the wire 
And commissary stores go up by thousands in the fire, 
A sudden charge at midnight, the long train is in ashes. 
The magazine explodes with deafening roar and crashes. 
Millions go up like tinder in all-consuming flame. 
And Morgan and his men ride oft', as quickly as they came. 



JOHN MORGAN AND HIS MEN. 

Nashville and Chattanooga rue, 

Divided rations cut in two. 

The horseman scathless burned and fled 

Their foes went supperless to bed. 

They might as well have fought the air 

They charged — but Morgan was not there. 

His baffled foe, always too slow 

To harass or inflict a blow, 

Muttered, "For sure the man's a wizard. 

One might as well strike at a blizzard," 

He's here — he's gone again — he's there! 

Like exhalation of the air 

Waving its strange, uncanny light 

O 'er grave or dismal swamp at night. 

One trait his hottest foe confessed, 

"A hero's heart beats in his breast, 

He never strikes a foe when down. 

Nor woman ever saw him frown." 

The mean poltroon of later days 

Who dons a mask in devious ways. 

Black mask and heart, in liver white, 

Fleet as a hare in coward flight 

And worthy of the hangman 's loop 

Ne'er found his like in Morgan's troop. 

They lashed no helpless foeman 's back, 

No woman felt his brute attack. 

He burned no roof o'er matron's head, 

While sleeping with her babes in bed, 

Nor scourged with thorns till shoulders bled. 

No town was burned in bandit flame 

Till the poltroon Night-riders came. 

With bloody threats in unsigned letters 

And switches to alarm their betters; 

An anarchist of basest soul, 

The gallows-tree his fitting goal 

Without a hope of reformation 

He forces this dilemma on the nation, 

Expatriation or Extermination. 

Bred in a home of luxury. 

The very flower of courtesy, 

The pet of good life's merry whirl, 



JOHN MORGAN AND HIS MEN 

Kindly and handsome as a girl, 
The dread of many a Federal band, 
The darling of the Southern land, 
Rode Morgan like a Centaur's self, 
But not for vulgar greed or pelf, 
Chivalrous men of force and pride, 
Sought brave adventures at his side. 
How shrewd he struck, how hard his blow 
The bravest Federal well might know. 
Even while their needed stores were brough 
Destruction came as quick as thought. 

Victim of Woman's treachery, 

He perished not as the brave should die. 

Decoyed to death, unarmed he died. 

No friend nor weapon by his side, 

Without resistance or a blow, 

His death-doom came from heartless foe, 

And strong men of heroic heart 

Who stooped not to the assassin's art 

Dropped at the news an honest tear 

When Morgan after bright career 

Unscathed by ball or battle-spear, 

Rested at last upon his bier, 

And unattended and unshriven 

The warrior's soul went up to Heaven. 

No base Night-riders he bequeathed. 
When peace her joyful olives wreathed. 
Nor placed a mean banditti stamp 
Upon the soldiers of his camp. 
When truce was called by Grant and Lee 
'Neath Appomattox apple tree. 
And 'mid the late conflicting bands 
Rejoicing Blue and Gray shook hands, 
And maidens by no fear oppressed 
Clasped warrior lovers to their breast. 
When Richmond's hills echoed no more. 
The black-lipped cannon 's horrid roar, 
A scene was witnessed there sublime, 
A wonder in the halls of Time, 
Each soldier to his work returned. 
In whom the love of country burned 



JOHN MORGAN AND HIS MEN 

Some to their former plow and spade, 
Some to their shops or honest trade; 
Trained by the clinic of the camp 
Doctors relit the student 's lamp. 
Some to the courts, or in the States' 
Grand forum joined the high debates, 
Others who learned in the late strife 
The vanity of mortal life. 
Proclaimed the Gospel's "Old, old Story" 
Their mothers taught long passed to glory, 
Leading their audience to Christ 
Whose balm for every ill sufficed. 
Watering their flocks at Jordan 's springs, 
Whose doves bore healing in their wings. 
Some of the band of Morgan 's fighters, 
Swapped swords for pens of ready writers, 
And Captains spruce and bearded Colonels 
Ruled Times, Gazettes, and Courier-Journals 
Some tossed the blazing torch aside. 
And ruled the tracks they once destroyed, 
Building steel railways far and near; 
And Duke who rode with Morgan's men. 
Turns suitor now to " Ellen N." 
Each man who followed Morgan 's fame 
Inspired by his heroic name, 
His living monument became. 

In Gotham 's mighty mart of trade. 

Which all of worth and brain invites 

The men of Morgan's cavalcade 

Conspicuous walk as shining lights 

As walked the men of Washington 

When Revolution's war was done. 

In posts of honor now they labor 

As when equipped with gun and sabre. 

And men exclaim on every hand 

"These rode in Morgan's great Command. 

Nor lapse of years shall e 'er dispel 

The love with which they fondly dwell 

On comrades who in battle fell, 

Who braved Stone River's fiery scath, 

Or forward pressed on bloody path 

Of Shiloh's field or Nashville's wrath. 

23 



THE WHIPPOORWILL. 

Evening mists hang o 'er the rill, 

Twilight's lucent dews are falling; 
From the copse on yonder hill 

The lone whippoorwill is calling; 
Soon as glow the Orient fires 

Of the new moon 's shining crescent 
With a throat that never tires 

Cries the bird with song incessant, 
"Whippoorwill!" 
Piping from its tuneful bill, 
"Whippoorwill!" 

Does that quick and plaintive cry 
Burst from bosom sorrow-laden, 
Like the star-told agony 

Of a wretched, love-lorn maiden? 
Or contemning, like a sage. 

Mirthful strains attuned to folly. 
Tames it thus the minstrel's rage 
With a song so melancholy? 
"Whippoorwill!" 
Music soothes our sorrows still, 
"Whippoorwill!" 

Hearts bereft of hope and light 

By the bolt of sorrow riven, 

'Neath the friendly vail of night 

Tell their griefs to listening heaven ; 
Like the lonely whippoorwill. 

Flying far from daylight's din, 
To some thick and starless shade 
Like that which fills the soul within. 
"Whippoorwill!" 
Night befriends the mourner still 
"Whippoorwill!" 

Like a hermit in his cell, 

Where a holy vow has bound him, 
Long the night bird 's vesper bell 

21 



THE NEW SOUTH 

Wakes the cloistered shades around him 
Sad as love beside the tomb 

Of its earliest, deepest sorrow 

Wails the bird till twilight 's gloom 

Fades away in dawning morrow — 

" Whippoorwill !" 

And its cry is never still — 

"Whippoorwill!" 



THE NEW SOUTH. 

Dedicated to R. W. Knott, Editor of the Louisville Evening Post 

Sweet were my dreams along thy streams, 

Old South, in bygone days. 
Till war's red cloud, 'mid thunders loud, 

Consumed them in its blaze: 
Sewanee's old plantation scenes, 

Where wild bees filled the comb; 
The banjo and the moonlight dance 

Of old Kentucky Home. 

The New South wakes! the New South shakes 

The dew-drops from her mane, 
For idle grief brings no relief. 

The past comes not again; 
To manly hearts and patient souls 

Heaven sanctifies each loss; 
Two angels, Toil and Patience, bear 

To Heaven the Southern Cross. 

New South ! New South ! unseal thy mouth. 

Thy golden age is come — 
Invention's soaring harmony 

And labor's busy hum. 
The Old South dies; with beaming eyes 

The New South hastens in ; 
So boyhood's toys are cast aside 

When manhood's deeds begin. 

25 



A FEVER DREAM. 

JEgri somnia vanae 
Fingentur species. — Horace. 

Many a league have I traversed to-night, 

Many a league in painful flight, 

For demons pressed on my bleeding track 

And the air with their sounding wings was black 

Often, often, they came so near 

I felt their hot breath on my ear. 

And mad with terror, I bounded on 

Till the cock crew out at the glimmering dawn. 

Over the rocks, through trackless woods, 

'er bottomless chasms and raging floods. 
Through measureless wastes of dreary swamps. 
Lit by the fireflies ' fitful lamps. 

Where the moccasin coils in scaly spires 

'Mong the water-inies and tangled briars; 

Where the spotted toad and the water newt 

Lurk in the weeds of the poisonous fen. 

And the blue-heron utters its plaintive cry, 

And the owl hoots out to the starless sky, 

And the foul miasma's putrid breath 

Is filling the air with the taint of death — 

Under the Upas tree's fatal shade 

Where death his carnival has made; 

Where ghastly corpses taint the day 

And the vulture fears to claim his prey; 

In the stifling air of the Grotto del Cane 

Where the night dews fall like blustering rain — 

1 fled, nor looked one moment back, 
For the ghosts were yelling on my track. 

Ah ! not the unimprisoned shadows. 
Which dwell in the Elysian meadows, 
Released from pain, and want, and care. 
And doubt and sorrow and despair; 
Nor such as timid wanderers meet, 
When the moon is struggling under a cloud, 

26 



A FEVER DREAM. 

With bony fingers and skeleton feet, 
And grinning skulls and ghastly shroud, 
But the nameless troop which lawless thought 
To the poet 's wildest dream has brought, 
The brood which dark remorse might view 
When justice comes to claim her due; 
Strange somethings of more frightful mien 
Than mortal eye has ever seen. 

O ! sacred sleep, once more descend, 
And seal these throbbing, aching eyes, 
Thou art the sufferer 's truest friend, 
And bringest balm from Paradise, 
Distilled from groves which never cast 
Their leaves from worm, or winter's blast. 
Hush! — 'Twas as if some murmured strain, 
Well known in childhood's happy hours. 
Came wafted o'er a desolate plain. 
On winds impregnated with flowers. 
And then they vanish — ^like the lambent light 
That flashes through a tempest cloud at night 

Lo! Dreamland's terrible array, 
Advances still — Away, away! — 
Down through the dark Cimmerian glen 
Stained with the blood of murdered men, 
Far from the beams of the friendly sun 
When "deeds without a name" are done. 
And the night-hags hold their dance of death 
Around the cauldron of Macbeth ; 
Where the sire fell by the hand of the son — 
A stab, a groan, and the crime was done; 
Where the duelist sped the ball of death, 
And the mother stifled the infant's breath, 
Under yon gloomy cypress ' shade 
By the lonely grave of the beautiful maid, 
Murdered by him who had betrayed. 
Where her spectre glides at dead of night 
With clots of gore on her bosom white; 
Where on a gibbet the murderer swings 
Waving his fleshless arms like wings — 
I fled, nor quaked at the hideous sight, 
For life and death were in my flight. 

27 



A FEVER DREAM. 

Across the burning desert's waste 

Where the path by skeletons is traced, 

And the bones of the caravan welter and bleach 

As thick as the shells on the ocean 's beach, . 

Swift as the winged winds I fly, 

And my swollen lips are all cracked and dry, 

And I plead in vain to the rainless sky, 

While my bloodshot eyes from their sockets burst 

In the torrid agony of thirst; 

But the demons that follow laugh and yell 

As they breathe the native blasts of hell. 

The simoon's blast, Oh joy! is past, 

And the ocean beach is reached at last ! 

A storm is out and the wild winds mock 

The ship as she drives on a hidden rock, 

And the sea-gull screams its piercing dirge 

As the dead drift in on the landward surge. 

No pause! but quick as thought I lave 

My burning limbs in the boiling wave, 

Till! reach a cliff in my watery flight 

And breathless scale its dizzy height. 

The ocean 's roar comes faint and weak 

As I cling to the side of the slippery peak, 

Watching the wrath of the fearful night 

By the fitful flash of tempest 's light. 

Lo! how the eyes of the demons glow 

As they cleave the boiling waves below! 

Yelling at me, their helpless prey 

As bloodhounds yell when the stag 's at bay ! 

They climb! they mount! the demons all. 

And the beetling cliff begins to fall — 

And I wake v/ith a groan and a smothered scream 

To find it all a fever dream 



28 




MAJOR E. B. BASSETT 

Third Infantry. K. S. G. 



MAJOR BASSETT'S CHASE. 

Text—^O that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider 
their latter end ! 
How should one chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand to flight? 

— Deuteronomy xxxii, 29, 30 

Glenraven's Night Riders, five hundred strong. 
Had finished their riot of outrage and wrong, 
They had burned Latham's warehouse, robbed Italy's King 
(What defense in the courts will the criminals bring? 
Who will dare to defend base ingratitude's sting?); 
They have scourged a Kentuckian's back like a slave, 
'Twas the brute deed of cowards, not the just or the brave, 
*McCool on his shoulders plied an overseer's lashes 
By the light of two warehouses sinking in ashes. 
They have dragged helpless maidens from innocent bed, 
They have shot through the bedrooms of widows — with lead 
These black-handed anarchists of murder and arson 
Fired four volleys at a silver haired Methodist parson. 
And yelled in derision as their shots rang on air, 
"Denounce us again, Sir Priest — if you dare! 
Neither for you, nor your Church, nor your God do we care! 
They have done all that arson and force could achieve. 
And quaking like cowards the outlaws take leave. 
Unlike valiant soldiers after manly affray 
But like thieves from a hen-roost sneak quickly away. 

Out spoke Major Bassett: "The dogs had their day. 
And shooting's a game at which two parties can play. 
They surprised us; the cowards have all skulked away. 
We'll follow!" cried Bassett, and off with his mount 
Pursued — ten brave men and true were his count. 
There was clatter of hoofs down the old Cadiz road, 
'Twas a clean pair of heels the Glenravenites showed. 
Alas, for the pluck of these minions of night, 
Black of mask and of heart, but their livers are white. 

"Ride fast!" shrieked the Night Riders' chief, looking back, 
"A thousand giants from Hopkinsville press on our track! 
The Mayor has mustered all Company D, 
In humanity's name can such outrages be? 

*McCool was shot the same night by Major Bassett's men He was a ruffian ol 
the lowest type, and had terrorized his neighborhood for years. 

29 



MAJOR BASSETTS CHASE 

Now is your time to do Latham up brown 

And fire him and his followers out of the town! 

Damn his turnpikes, on which thirty thousand he spent! 

Damn the churches he aided — Hotel, Monument — 

(How grandly it towers o'er Confederate graves — 

Shall the sons of such heroes be Night Riders' slaves?) 

Damn all such aristocrats, they shall know by the powers, 

That after they've made it their money is ours!" 

Hoboes, loafers and robbers, ride for your lives. 

On your crimes the Raven of Glen Raven thrives, 

And its horrible croak strikes fear to the land 

When it calls to the raid the Night Riders' band. 

But who would have thought that the dogs would shoot back 

Real Krag-Jorgensen bullets? Alas and alack! 

His words were cut short by a volley of lead — 

There were loud shrieks of pain, in all quarters they fled ; 

The shots of the bandits flew wide of their mark, 

As they galloped in terror away in the dark. 

Nor halted the maskers in their blood-sprinkled path 

To look back on three comrades writhing in death. 

Then Bassett assembled his God-fearing squad 
And bowing their heads devoutly thanked God 
That when Christian men band to battle for Right 
One Christian can put a thousand outlaws to flight. 
Honest men will always walk off with the cake, 
And that is where Moses made no mistake ; 
And to the Last Judgment all honest men 
Will bow to the Decalogue traced by his pen; 
For God Himself writes in Mount Sinai's brief 
By Moses His penman, Humanity's chief. 
The Night Rider is coward, assassin, and thief. 
Hold fast to Moses! A squad of eleven 
Who join hands with Truth, are posted for Heaven, 
And the outlaws who 'gainst truth and honor rebel 
Must go to their place with the outlaws in Hell. 

So we'll all shout huzza for Bassett and band, 

Till they banish the Night Riders out of the land. 

Forever shall God's honest ministers preach 

Paul's heaven-taught doctrine of order and law, 

As bold as John Baptist they shall stand in the breach 

To battle for Truth and keep villains in awe. 

3" 



THE TEN BROTHERS. 

I On the last day of the Christian County Fair, many years since, the ten sons of 
Mrs. Rebecca Brown, all excellent horsemen, entered the amphitheater mounted on 
iron-gray horses. After a fine exercise of horsemanship by the brothers the judges 
presented their aged mother with a silver cup, amid the loud applause of the vast 
crowd of spectators.] 

'Tis the last afternoon of the old County Fair 
The amphitheatre's thronged for a spectacle rare. 
Ten sons of one mother contend for the prize 
And a whirlwind of cheering ascends to the skies 
'Tis surely a pity that horses and sheep, 
Mules, poultry and swine the blue ribbon should keep, 
O'er a highly bred strain of true women and men — 
If degenerate men rule the State, pray what then? 

On ten iron-gray horses they enter the ring, 
Ten brothers as graceful as swallows on wing. 
The crowd shouts and claps, for county and town 
Loved their silver-haired mother, Rebecca Brown. 
Let others for cattle and horses seek the prize 
The boys she had nursed were more dear in her eyes, 
Her sons were her jewels like Cornelia of old, 
More precious than Solomon's rubies and gold, 
Each son a true citizen honored of men, 
Master workmen are all with plow, anvil or pen. 
In pairs and platoons they join and divide. 
Ever changing the figure in column they ride, 
Firm in the stirrup, with regular motion. 
Like flights of wild geese or the billows of ocean, 
O Mother! far better than rank, fashion, or wealth 
Is the toast all spectators now drink to your health. 

"Here's a health to good mothers, the Angels of home. 
Write their names in the Temple of Fame — on the dome!" 
Smiling through tears gazed the mother that day, 
Her eyes followed each son on his fleet iron-gray. 
Thrifty, frugal, and upright was each dutiful one, 
In the whole decade not a prodigal son 
Precious memories ran back o'er the long vista of years, 
Faith's brilliant rainbow arched her fountain of tears, 
Love and hope all commingled with doubts and with fears. 



THE TEN BROTHERS. 

O hour mysterious of omnipotent prayer! 

When the fireflies' carnival flashes in air, 

When the Evening Star shines and the meteors glide 

She counselled them thus as they knelt by her side: — 

"Let no plausible white lie, for gain, soil your lips; 

Let the clear sun of Truth be undimmed by eclipse. 

God's commandments be yours, for their number is Ten, 

Obey them and be honored of God and of Men, 

For 'tis better by far to be honest than rich. 

And the King who is false finds his grave in a ditch; 

His manhood's secure in the armour of Truth 

Who remembers his Creator in the days of his youth." 

Swift round the ring rode the Ten Brothers Brown, 

Till the bugle sounds "Halt!" for award of the crown. 

By what rule of the Fair shall the Judges decree? 

Horsemen, horses, or mother — to which of the three? 

There was strewing of flowers, kerchiefs waving galore 

Acclamations round the vast amphitheatre roar 

As waves boom aloud 'gainst the rocks on the shore. 

As around the grand stand the brothers rode up 

The Judges with one voice cried, "Take, O Mother, this cup, 

Far better and higher than wealth, rank or beauty, 

Your sons are your jewels — take the high prize of Duty, 

For Motherhood's Excellence is guarded secure 

While Truth reigns on high and the heavens endure!" 



32 



ECHO RIVER. 

Through the unpeopled realms of night 

We have reached the Echo River; 

And our swinging torches' light 

Over its sunless waters quiver — 

Shooting their rays athwart the gloom 

Of yonder stem, colossal tomb; 

Emblazoning the funeral pall 

Of night, that drapes the high-arched hall, 

So dense, we almost hear it wave 

Over the Titan's rocky grave — 

Once the dread Cyclops of the Cave. 

What bold Ulysses, standing by, 
Gazed on his dying agony, 
When, blind and frenzied, he laid down 
His scepter and imperial crown, 
And yielded up his struggling breath 
In this stern catacomb of death; 
And felt the icy shiver 
That chilled the fever's fiery parch. 
When took his soul its Stygian march 
Adown the dark and stony arch 
Of gloomy Echo River? 

Lone as the tarn, whose sobbing flood 
Sighs in some demon-haunted wood, 
Its cheerless waters ever run 
Without one welcome from the sun; 
Without a smile from one lone star 
That trembles in the sky afar; 
But wend their solitary way. 
Secluded from the light of day. 

Kind Genii of the mystic wave. 

Who guard the portals of the cave, 

Gently along this sable tide 

Now let our little shallop glide; 

And by these weird and shadowy shores 

Direct the dusky boatman 's oars, 

33 



ECHO RIVER. 

Until yon night-enshrouded strand 
Receives our wandering pilgrim band 

High towering, like the rocky walls 
Of the leviathan's ocean halls, 
Rises the overshadowing cliff 
Above our frail but daring skiff. 
Which skims along this lower deep. 
Where angry tempests never sweep 
Nor polar star affords its ray 
To steer us on our trackless way. 
And as we slowly sail along, 
The plashing oar, the voice of song. 
Caught by the Naiads of the waves 
And echoed by the vocal caves, 
Enchant the pleased yet startled ear 
With strains that ring as loud and clear 
As the wild mountain music — bom 
From the lone Alpine shepherd 's horn, 
In peals so loud that they affright 
The lammergeyer on dizzy height; 
And the bold eagle's trumpet shriek, 
Loud-bugled from his thunder beak 
And echoed round from peak to peak, 
In hollow cadence dies away 
Along the mountain river. 
When the first stars of evening gray 
On the blue waters quiver. 



Boom! rings the flashing pistol's shot! 
The sound, by myriad echoes caught. 
Roars down the dark aisles of the grot; 
Loud as the earthquake demon 's groan, 
Peals the terrific thunder-tone — 
As if the shrieking blasts of March, 
That wrestle with the mountain larch, 
Swept down the dark and stony arch 
Of glory 's Echo River. 

'Tis gone ! and now a sad farewell 
Unto the listening waves we tell ; 

34 



ECHO RIVER. 

Softer than midnight serenade 
Sung to the ears of Spanish maid 

By the blue Guadalquiver! 
Plaintive and sweet as "Dixie" 's air 
Of sadness which is not despair 
And ravishes the enchanted ear 
Of home-returning volunteer — 
By his dear Bluegrass maiden sung, 
To mandolin with silver tongue. 
And witching is the fond adieu 
The voice of beauty sings to you — 

O, music-murmuring river! 
For one, whose eyes and flowing locks 
Are darker than the raven 's wing 
Of midnight, brooding o 'er yon rocks, 
Touches the plaintive sounding string, 
And pours a melancholy song 
That floats the vocal stream along, 
Sad as the convent 's vesper hymn, 
Chanted by nuns, at twilight dim. 
Or that strange harp, whose magic tone 
So wildly sweet, so sad and lone, 
To mortal minstrel never known, 
On night winds wafts its hollow moan. 
The ravished Genii of the waves 
Repeat the story through the caves; 
And far along the tuneful flood, 
A never-ending multitude 
Of echoing Ariels take their flight 
Far down the dark aisles of the night. 

If, when our throbbing hearts are still, 
And pulseless lies the icy hand. 
Reality should then fulfill 
Our dreamings of a brighter land. 
Then may the unfettered spirit's ear. 
In some supernal, sinless sphere. 
Hear some immortal song like this 
Float through the bowers of Paradise, 

That bloom serene forever. 
While wafted home to rest, we dream. 
By Eden's clear, ambrosial stream. 
That clouds o'ershadow never. 



35 



THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL. 

We part! But O, who would not grieve 
This world of melody to leave? 
For round our hearts a witching spell 
Lingers and whispers low, "Farewell!" 
Like the low moan of ocean shell. 
Or midnight chime of distant bell, 
The torches, dancing to and fro, 
Cast in long lines their golden glow 
Over the inky surge's flow, 
Like arrows from Apollo's bow 

Or Dian 's starry quiver ! 
And like an anthem from the skies. 
The voice of heavenly music dies 

Far down the Echo River! 



THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL. 

'Twas night in Richmond's hospital. The day 
As though its eyes were dimmed by bloody rain 
From the red cloud of war, had quenched its light. 
And in its stead some pale sepulchral lamps 
Shed their dim rays across the halls of pain. 
And flaunted mystic shadows on the walls. 
Ah! woe is me! No ringing cry of "Charge!" 
Stirs the hot, sulphurous air. The parting groan, 
The shuddering moan of bitter agony 
From white lips quivering as they strive in vain 
To smother mortal pain, appall the ear, 
And make the warm blood curdle in the heart. 

Nor flag, nor plume, nor bayonet, nor lance. 

Nor burnished gun, nor bugle-call, nor drum. 

Display the pomp of battle; but instead, 

The surgeon hard at work with lips compressed; 

The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the lance. 

The bandage and the splint are scattered round. 

Dumb symbols telling more than tongue can speak 

The awful presence of the fiend of war. 

Lo, there! What gentle form with cautious step 

Passes from cot to cot as noiselessly 

As the faint shadows flickering on the wall? 



36 



THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL 

She comes to one, a soldier from his youth, 

Grown gray in arms, pierced through with mortal wounds; 

Beside his cot she kneels and tells of Him 

Who wrought redemption on the bitter cross. 

The veteran hears with smile of gratitude. 

And, like a frozen fount when it is touched 

By the sun 's rays, he melts in gushing tears, 

And, fixing his last look on her and Heaven, 

Passes away in penitential prayer. 

She comes to one in sinewy manhood's prime. 

Now prostrate like a lightning-shattered pine. 

Death fears he not. His busy thoughts have gone 

To his far cottage in the Southern wilds, 

Where his young bride and prattling little ones. 

Poor helpless lambs ! chased by the wolves of war. 

Wait for the absent one, and sadly say, 

"How long he stays! Where can he be to-night?" 

The angel softly whispers in his ear, 

"A husband to the widow God will be, 

And guard her orphans. Let His will be done." 

The dying man her consolation hears, 

And gives the dearest treasure of his soul 

In resignation to the will of Heaven. 

A' fair, pale boy of fifteen summers turns 

His wasted form upon the couch of death; 

Ah! how unlike the downy nest prepared 

By mother's love, when slept the tender child. 

He heard the fife and drum and rushed to arms 

Amid the rude companionship of war. 

The raging fever burns his brain; he moans 

And raves in agony; his laboring breath 

Is quick and hot as that of stricken fawn 

Stretched by the Indian 's arrow on the plain. 

"Mother! dear mother!" oft his faltering tongue 

Shrieks to the cold bare walls, which echo back 

His wailing m the mockery of despair. 

The angel comes, and fondly bending o 'er 

The boy she cools his throbbing brow and prays 

That the Good vShepherd would take home the lamb. 

Far wandering from the dear maternal fold. 

To the green valleys of eternal rest. 

37 



THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL. 

(Nurse lifts her hands in horror, and faints away. Others 
hasten to her relief. The dead boy is carried out.) 
Mary: O, my long -lost dear brother! What an awful moment 
was that when, by the dim lamp-light, I recognized in the wan, 
wasted face of the dying boy, the child with whom I had sported 
so often in the meadows and by the brook, gathering berries or 
wild flowers, and shouting in the fullness of mirth till the woods 
rang with the echoes. With me he grew up. We studied our tasks 
together till our aims and sympathies seemed to be one. The hor- 
rid war-bugle sounded; the dismal drum beat; the beardless boy 
then rushed from my arms to throw himself into the tumult of 
battle. Suddenly, while waiting on the wounded in the house of 
torture, I came upon the lost one, mangled and bleeding. He 
gasps and dies in my arms without recognition! Mother of Sor- 
rows, whose loving heart was pierced with woe as with a sword 
under the cross of thy Son, give thy divine sympathy to this heart 
so bereaved, crushed, and desolate! 

Materna: 

An iron scepter and a brazen crown 

The war-god bears; stern, cold, and merciless, 

He smites his worshippers with bloody hand. 

Foreman: 

So walks the angel on from scene to scene: 
Sweet vision of my dreams! thy light shall shine 
Through this dark world, all cloudless, calm, serene. 
Pure as the sacred evening star of love. 
The brightest planet in the host above ! 



38 



[Telegram from Andrew Johnson, Military Governor of Tennessee, 
TO S. C. Mercer, Editor of the "Nashville Daily Union."] 



:xn Mii^m\)l 




-f--. 







iT^C^t.'^ -*"'^<, ^ ^y -^- ■< *-**— — ^ 

Washington. April 28, 1863. 
To S. C. Mbrckr, Editor of the Nashville Daily Union : 

Private. Your labors are highly appreciated out of Tennessee. Go on as you 
have done unfaltering in the work you have commenced. The Union Club of Nash- 
ville is doing much good. Their proceedings are looked to with much interest. I 
hope their policy will be sound and their purposes decided. 

I have got things straightened out, I hope for the better. I will be in Nashville 
soon, Andrew Johnson. 



THE TWO SINGERS. 

Two singers sat on New Year's eve 

By the blaze of a flickering fire. 
"The old year is burning out, " said one 

"Like the embers of our own life's fire; 
As the fire's blaze are our passing days, 

As the year shall our lives be o'er; 
Let us sing a rhyme to the passing year 

Ere we shall rhyme no more." 

The elder rhymer, heavy of heart, 

Cried "Life is a thankless task. 
Its loves and its hate, its Church and State, 

Are only a hollow mask. 
Honor, and love, and rank and fame, 

Are chaff and idle words. 
And the schemes of men and the hopes of youth 

Are the chatter of silly birds. 

"Thus runs my rhyme: — The Ferryman Time 

With his ever-waning glass, 
Has laid on his bier another year 

And sung his Midnight Mass. 
From the oak wood dim rose a funeral hymn 

As earth bewailed the dead. 
And the seas made moan through every zone 

As the souls to Judgment fled. 

' ' The Ferryman stands on the sable sands 

Of the desolate Stygian stream ; 
Not a starry eye from the stormy sky 

Shoots down one cheerful beam, 
But a hopeless wail filled the winter gale 

As the phantom guests rushed in, 
And fear and despair, and doubt were there, 

Hopes baffled, and woe and sin. 

"Ambition told how his palace fell 
Whose turrets braved the clouds, 
His royal guests changed their courtly robes 

39 



THE TWO SINGERS 

For pale and ghostly shrouds. 
His banquet hall is tenantless, 

Unstrung is the minstrel 's viol — 
Not a sound to greet but the pendulum 's beat 

Of the lone monotonous dial. 

"Genius proclaimed how folly's scorn 

Robbed his nights and days of rest, 
And the only food of his eagle brood 

Was the life-blood of his breast. 
Bright were the gleams that lit his dreams, 

But ah! when he awoke 
His light was dead, his vision fled, 

And hope and heart were broke. 

"Pale as the light of an Eastern night 

Straying through orange bowers, 
Comes the love-crazed maid, Ophelia sad. 

White-robed and crowned with flowers 
The essence she of purity, 

Bom for love's pure caress. 
But madness quenched her soul 's desire 

In utter wretchedness. 

"So," cried the bard, "the whole wide earth 

Is a den of baffled souls. 
'Mid all its pleasures, joys, and hopes. 

The dreary death-bell tolls." 

"Hold," cried his comrade — "See the whole 

And judge not by a part. 
The end shall crown the work, and heal 

The disappointed heart. 
See where the boatman waits to cross 

Death 's strange, mysterious stream 
The endless Life to Come outlasts 

This mortal, transient dream. 

"Unworthy of a wise man's lips 

Are the murmurs of despair; 
The heavens have never lost one star 

And God Himself reigns there. 
A faithful God created man — 

40 



BATTLE OF MILL SPRING 

He ne'er forsakes a friend; 
Wait, comrade, on God 's goodness still — 
Be patient to the end. 

"Through mists of doubt there shines a light 

Upon Death 's farther shore- 
Where the Lethean draught of peace is quaffed 

And the struggle of earth is o 'er. 
Our feet shall stand on the shining strand 

Of Life's eternal river, 
Where the buds of Hope in fullness ope 

And Love endures forever." 



BATTLE OF MILL SPRING. 

By the banks of the Cumberland echoes the roar 
Of the sentinel's warning — the foe's on the shore. 
Our war-drums are beaten, our bugles are blown. 
And our legions advance to their musical tone. 

By the banks of the Cumberland, slippery and red 
With the death -dew of battle, and strewn with the dead, 
Kentucky has routed her arrogant foe, 
And victory's star gilds the night of our woe. 

By those banks, that once bloomed like an Eden of joy 
The fiend of Disunion stalked forth to destroy. 
Our rich teeming harvests he swept in his wrath. 
And the blaze of our dwellings illumined his path. 

Like an eagle-plumed arrow our Nemesis comes. 
Shout, soldiers! sound, bugles! and clamor, oh drums! 
Let the land ring aloud in the wildness of joy. 
And the bonfires blaze brightly — but not destroy. 

For the God of the Union has prospered the right, 
And the ranks of Disunion have melted in flight. 
Blow, bugles! roll, river! and tell to the sea 
That our swords shall not rest 'till Kentucky is free, 

41 



THE GREEK SLAVE. 

[Power's Greek Slave was on exhibition in Lexington, Ky., where I lived 
■hen these lines were published in the Lexington Observer and Reporter. '\ 

Soft as the silver songs which breathed 

Over the Lesbian Sappho's shell, 

When the white-handed Paphians wreathed 

Garlands for her who sang so well, 

Is the low murmur of the waves 

Which swell along Zacynthus' caves 

And in melodious echoes fall 

Within the mermaids' ocean hall. 

There many a grove salutes the sea 

With song-birds ' ceaseless harmony 

Innumerable blossoms fling 

Rich odors on the dewy wing 

Of every breeze which wanders free 

Over the blue ^gean Sea; 

In golden splendor of the day 

Reflected from the burnished bay. 

Or spangled with the countless lights 

Which gem those skies on cloudless nights, 

And land and sea and sky above 

Breathe only peace and joy and love. 



A maiden in her grape-vine bower 
vSat sorrowful at twilight's hour. 
And as her fingers sweep the strings 
Of her guitar she softly sings, 
"O, for the Greeks of olden time 
Worthy our blest and sunny clime; 
Men who would rather die than brook 
That Turkish chain or Persian yoke 
Should strangle like a serpent's coil 
One neck on freedom 's native soil . 
Never, O never, ye Spartan dead. 
Till you arise from your gory bed, 
Will the Sultan cease to bear away 
The flower of Greece for his harem 's prey. 

42 



THE GREEK SLAVE. 

The sun is up ; his rising ray 
vShoots brightly o'er the swelling bay, 
And richly mottled shells which strew 
The beach with many a dazzling hue. 
With tapered masts in sunshine gleaming 
And pennons in the breezes streaming 
And snowy sails yon shallop glides 
Gracefully over the heaving tides. 
And see a captive maiden stands 
Upon its deck with fettered hands. 
Her song is changed to a wail of pain 
For plundered home and parents slain. 
Harsh is the clanging of the chains 
Which bind her lithe and shapely limbs 
Keen are their deep and cankering pains 
But not for this her dark eye swims 
In agonizing tears, whose flow 
Betokens bitter shame and woe. 
Sorer are tears for freedom fled 
Than those afi'ection gives the dead. 
The sorest pangs that fate can send 
Like arrows to the captive 's heart 
Are not from outward griefs; these end, 
Theirs is a transitory smart ; 
But musing on her island home. 
The home of purity and bliss. 
And then the thought of days to come — 
The hopeless harem, it is this 
Which fills her soul with deeper anguish 
Than makes the dying martyr languish. 

But Power's hand shall carve the tale 
Of sorrow in that Grecian vale. 
His cunning chisel shall relate 
The sorrow of a fallen State, 
And the incomparable Slave, 
Repeat o'er many a distant wave 
The legend of the hapless maid 
To Turkish lust and shame betrayed , 



43 



ODE TO IMPUDENCE 

Goddess of Impudence, 

Whose tinsel -crowned pretense 

And shameless eye and cheek of polished brass 

Rule Young America 

With all-triumphant sway, 
The forward school-boy and precocious lass. 
Whose unweaned mouths smell of their nurses ' milk 
And others of that ilk — 
Inspire my pen, 

Queen of the groundlings and the Upper Ten, 
For to thy empire both belong 
And both deserve a song. 

What protean power 

Is thy mysterious dower? 

Thy wonder-working wand 

Transmutes all things to gold like Midas ' hand — 

All save the metal of thy followers ' face, 

And that is brass, we know in every place; 

Thy favors, where thou dost dispense. 

Make up for lack of decency and sense; 

Thy harlot tread 

Crushes the modest violet in its bed; 

Truth, wit, and merit are proclaimed a bore, 

And kicked sans ceremonie from the door; 

And power, wealth, and fame 

Are given unto them who know no shame. 

Thy trophies first are seen 

In youths and maidens tender, young, and green. 

Who stalk the streets about 

Before their doting mothers know they're out; 

See how these infant swells 

Gallant their baby belles. 

Who know much more 

Than their mammas found out at twenty-four; 

They feel the early flame at seven; 

At nine 
They languish, sigh, and pine; 

44 



ODE TO IMPUDENCE. 

Til], dying to be wedded at thirteen, 

A moonlight runaway concludes the scene. 

The mincing maid, 

Let loose from school, 
Hooped, bustled, high-heeled, stayed. 

Pert as a jay and stubborn as a mule, 
Proves to the world that she has learned to faint 
To dip, to lily-white, and paint. 
And lift her skirts so high 
That the unwilling eye 
May see the neatness of her garter 's tie 
Oh, Impudence; thou hast removed 
The childish innocence we loved; 
No more we see 
The native blush of modesty; 
Saucy and malapert. 
The girl a coquette and the boy a flirt ; 
Forward and bold, 
They honor not the old — 
Not even the sire. 

Who sits unhonored by his cheerless fire — 
Too fondly dreaming of the sweet repose 
Under the grape-vine shadows of Melrose. 
Nor her who bore the brood. 
The hissing vipers of ingratitude; 
But dark and ominous fate 
Sits like a raven o 'er the gate 
Whence modesty has fled. 
And Impudence lifts up her brazen head, 
For Folly 's breath pollutes the air. 
And Wisdom will not linger there. 
And all within 
Bows to the iron rule of ignorance and sin. 

See where the bold imposter plies his trade, 

And cheats of every kind are made; 

Quack creeds, quack medicines, quack politics, 

In wild confusion mix; 

And lo; the scribbler who writes down 

The wisest and the noblest men, 

With his envenomed pen, 

45 



ODE TO IMPUDENCE. 

To please the long-eared rabble of the town, 
The darkly hinted calumny, 

The vulgar jeer, 

The cynic sneer, 
The bold unblushing lie. 
He scatters round in heedless wrath, 
Like firebrands upon a madman 's path. 
So when the infernal crew had hunted down 
The statesman who deserved a crown, 
And shot the empoisoned dart 
Deep in his quivering heart. 

While, like a stag chased home, at bay he stood, 
Facing the clamorous pack athirst for blood; 
With awful grandeur beaming in his eye. 
Promethean in its agony. 
The hireling scribbler all unshamed 
By the sad gaze of him he had defamed, 
Exulted in his hellish work, 
As the assassin when he plies his dirk. 
And styled himself apostle sent to teach 
Mankind the glories of free thought and speech. 

The Sage upon Judea's Mount 
Unsealed the everlasting fount 
Of Peace and Truth and Love, 
And the Evangel Dove 

Came from the skies and nestled to his breast, 
And bright-eyed Hope, 
From Heaven's starry slope. 
Under his gentle reign, 
Beheld the Golden Age return again, 

And Earth was blest. 
But lo; lean wolves have seized the fold. 
And brass supplants the Age of Gold. 
Luxurious, profligate, and vile. 
With lips of guile. 
And Judas ' kiss and smile, 
The modern Pharisee, 
With broad phylactery. 
Converts the temple of his God 
Into a mart of crime and fraud. 
Inspired by thee, oh. Impudence; 

He holds the words of truth and speaks a lie, 

46 



ODE TO IMPUDENCE. 

Cloaks blackest sins with fair pretense 

Of Apostolic piety, 
And shears the starving sheep and flays the lambs, 
'Mid groans and prayers and penitential psalms. 

Oh, Impudence; thy triumph is complete; 
Mankind lie prostrate at thy feet, 
And every class, 

Like bees in swarm, 

Are spell-bound by the charm 
Of "tinkling cymbals and of sounding brass," 
Genius and modest worth 
Starve in the cradle of their birth. 
They win the meed of fame 
Whose deeds deserve the pillory of shame; 
Upon the topmost waves of honor ride, 
As scum and froth float on the swollen tide. 
So coxcombs in the garden blow. 
While fragrant myrtles nestle low; 
So hollyhocks uplift their head 
In scentless robes of flaunting red, 
And gaudy peonies 
Attract the passers' eyes. 
Yet from their leaves no fragrant dews 
Their cheering influence difl'use 
Like that ambrosia and sweet violets shed, 
Or fragrant mignonette in its unnoticed bed . 



47 



MY BIRTHDAY. 

Another milestone meets me, on Time's weary road of woe, 

And onward to the sea of Death, o'er rugged steeps I go; 

Far in the West the setting sun in clouds is sinking fast. 

And night o'ertakes me with its storms and madly howling blast. 

Ah, there were days whose lapse was like the flow of summer waves 
When June's fresh roses stoop to kiss the murmuring stream that 

laves, 
When gentle tones and loving eyes my boyish pastimes blest 
And childhood's every care was soothed upon a mother's breast. 

Sister, sweet sister, oh, could not the fearful spoiler spare 

A heart so true and innocent, a form so young and fair! 

I saw thy lily hands crossed on thy snowy winding sheet. 

But thy soul was by the shining throne, upon the golden street. 

But oh, thy gentle voice on earth can make no music now, 
And in the tomb the funeral dust is gathered on thy brow. 
What now is left to me? To muse upon the past with pain 
While the quivering pulse is throbbing like a death knell on my 
brain. 

I am like one shipwrecked upon some bleak and lonely shore. 
With not a voice to greet his ear except the billows' roar; 
All that he loved are whelmed far down beneath the briny sea; 
Even hope deserts him now — alas! all hope has fled from me! 

Dark falls the night — all pitiless the rainy tempests blow — 
Earth yields no shelter, and above no friendly beacons glow; 
A crown of thorns is piercing through my aching, throbbing brow. 
And iron griefs my pallid cheeks with deep run furrows plow. 

But oh, thou Holy One, whose feet once pressed this earthly sod; 
Balm of the bruised and bleeding heart, oh, sinless Lamb of God, 
To thee on bended knees, with tears of bitterness, I pray. 
For thou canst heal my stricken heart and guide me on the way. 



48 



BATTLE OF NASHVILLE 

December 15-16, 1864. 

[Written as a Carriers' Address for the Nashville Daily Press and 7 ivies, 
December 25, 1864.] 

The Preparation. 

All day, while gazing from yon lofty tower, 
We saw, far gleaming through the mist and smoke, 
The camps, like fleets upon a circling sea. 
Or snowdrifts sleeping on the frozen hills, 
Dumb batteries, like bloodhounds in the leash. 
Yet terrible in silence, the blue tide 
Of cavalry, the battle's foremost wave; 
The gunboats on the left; upon the right 
Fort Gillem 's bannered staff, and to the south 
Fort Negley's bastions belting St. Cloud's hill. 
And Morton and Casino by its side. 
How soon their guns will belch their sulphurous breath 
Upon the crimson carnival of Death! 

The Night Scene. 

But when the darkness swallowed up the day. 
As if we entered the Elysian fields. 
Through the encircling clouds of awful night, 
We saw a glowing Paradise of light. 
A thousand camp-fires blossomed on the hills, 
The flame-leaved lilies of the Field of Mars, 
Minerva's bloody roses, passion-flowers. 
Planted by sooty Vulcan, whose red disc 
Thrive best in crimson showers, and gather strength. 
Fanned by the moans and sighs of dying men, 
Each tented hill and pyramid of fire 
Flashed round the dark horizon, till it seemed 
A billowed sea of many-twinkling lights, 
Or burning girdle of Vesuvian crests 
Whose surging lava trembled to o'erleap 
Their glowing craters and engulf the plains. 
Alas, for many a harnessed warrior when 
Yon Battle-Titan turns him in his den ! 

49 



BATTLE OF NASHVILLE. 

The Prelude. 

Hearken! In the murky morning, 

Sounds the awful note of warning. 

Winding down the river shore 

Tramps the veteran Sixteenth Corps, 

Wilson's bugles charm the river, 

With the signal of advance, 

Twenty thousand guidons quiver 

From the horsemen's tapering lance! 

Twenty thousand chargers' feet 

Hurry through the startled street. 

Stretching "to the crack of doom" 

Till they vanish in the gloom 

Of the woods which fringe the west 

Round Fort ZollicofiFer's crest. 

We hear along the western shore 

The sullen battle's opening roar, 

While in the clouds, like the Angel of Death, 

The white-winged shells pour their sulphurous breath. 

Hatch's horsemen spur their steeds, 

Croxton 's sabres bright and gleaming, 

Johnson in the vanguard leads 

Still encircling, still advancing, 

Onward like a torrent 's dashing, 

Spaulding 's carbine fire is flashing, 

Like a serpent line of fire — 

Stewart reels before their ire. 

Rolls the battle-t umult higher — 

The soldier falls — the charger bleeds, 

Stewart's line recoils! — recedes! 

"Charge the batteries!" — It is done — 

Stewart 's legions turn and fly — 

Swells the glad shout of Victory! — 

So the first day's strife is won 

The Second Day. 

The morning breaks 

With battle thunder, 
The city wakes 

With fear and wonder. 
See the glittering bayonets shine. 
Along the front of Steedman 's line. 

50 



BATTLE OF NASHVILLE. 

The bugle 's call — the rolling drum — 
The mad shriek of the flying shell, 
The rush — the soldier's frenzied yell, 
The crash of the exploding bomb 
Careenng wildly through the air, 
The distant batteries' vivid glare, 
The cannons ' smoke which jets aloof. 
The foaming charger's clattering hoof, 
The musketry 's incessant shower. 
Drifting its lead 'round Acklin's tower; 
The cannister's consuming spray, 
Where dauntless Steedman cleaves his way; 
Or fearless Wood 's heroic form 
Lion-like, confronts the storm, 
Startle the eye and stun the ear 
As sweeps the battle 's wild career 

There is dread and desperation, 

There is wrath and trepidation; 

They grapple, they reel 

In the sharp shock of steel. 

They struggle, they bleed, 

They rush, they recede; 

Death 's harvesters labor 

With carbine and sabre. 
In swaths the dead are falling, and the maimed and 

bleeding writhe 
Before the steady swinging of the ponderous battle- 
scythe. 

The Chief. 
Serene and steady as the Polar Star 
Whose light no clouds can quench nor billows mar 
But shines while tempests lash the deep below, 
Thomas surveyed the turbid storm of war. 
And gazed and watched to strike the final blow. 
The Rock of Chickamauga, braving the whirlwind's jar. 

The Charge. 

Freemen of the stem Northwest, 
Come with bayonets in rest. 
Exiles of East Tennessee 
Strike ! and make the oppressor flee. 

51 



BATTLE OF NASHVILLE. 

Warriors once in fetters bound, 

With liberty would you be crowned? 

Now or never stand your ground, 

Make your fearless masters feel 

The vengeance of a freeman's steel, 

And with or on your shining shield 

Return in glory from the field. 
Clenched lips turn pale, but they pale not with fear, 
And the soldier's eye gleams like a star in its sphere, — 

There 's a hush ! 

There's a rumbling and crush. 
Like the breaking of the ice in a thawing river's flush, 
The solid earth shakes with a universal rush. 

The clouds of battle break, 

The hills in terror quake, 
While the fire crackles down their sides like a red volcanic lake — 
Beneath whose fiery surge that day full many a bark went down. 
And many a soul which morning woke from dreams of high renown. 

Face to face and sword to sword — 

See the slave confront his lord; 
Through the tumult the foam-covered charger is spurred. 
And the shrieks of the wounded and dying are heard; 
And the muskets and carbines are doubled and battered 
And sabres and bayonets to atoms are scattered — 
The command and the curse, and the groan and the yell, 
Thunder up like the mad-bubbling cauldron of Hell. 
* Eagles of victory, say, on which flag will you alight — 
Confederate or Federal? Both deem their cause is right; 
Never more fearless rivals grappled in mortal fight. 
No carpet knights are they, but iron-sinewed men, 
From office, mine, and workshop, from mountain, prairie, glen, 
From legendary Southern river, from sparkling Northern lake, 
From Indiana beechwood, or Arkansas cane-brake. 
All worthy of the highest song that dropped from Homer's pen. 
Leonidas at Thermopylae led on no braver crew 
Than those who bore the "Stars and Bars"; nor bloody Waterloo, 
Than the men who carried the "Stars and Stripes" where bullets 

thickest flew. 
God speed the day when the boys in Gray shall charge with the 

boys in Blue, 
And San Juan and Manila Bay a loving-cup shall brew. 
And Dewey and Joe Wheeler the old love shall renew. 

* The fourteen lines following are of course a later interpolation. 

52 



BLONDE AND BRUNETTE. 

Where is Thomas? His lips compressed, 

Smother the tumult in his breast; 

Along the line his clear survey 

Scans the sure fortune of the day. 

"Forward to the charge once morel" 

Then like the Judgment thunder, 

Cleaving the clouds asunder, 
The shock of battle sweeps from shore to shore 
And shakes the rock-ribbed valley with its roar. 
Like a tropical tornado. Death pours his crimson rain 
In swirling drifts of slaughter along the trampled plain. 
Bleeding and torn and shattered, Hood's vanquished legions fly, 
And along the Union line goes up the shout of victory. 
Thus Nashville's Two Days' Battle by our silent chief was won, 
And our hearts were filled with gladness at the setting of the sun. 



BLONDE AND BRUNETTE. 

Two clouds, gold and purple, at sunrise contending; 

Two chords of rare music, contrasting and blending. 
Through the carnival flying like sunshine and shadow, 

Pursuing each other o 'er mountain and meadow, 
Swept our blonde and brunette, all radiant with joy — 

Cleopatra of Egypt, and Helen of Troy. 

The blonde is a dew-spangled morning in June 

When birds, breeze and bees with the sun are in tune; 

Her lips and the rose scent the crystalline air 
And the sunshine is lost in the gold of her hair. 

The brunette is a ray of the mystical light 

Which falls from the moon on a midsummer night. 

And visions celestial of Loveland arise. 

From the luminous depths of her violet eyes; 

And each rapturous gleam of her presence gives birth 
To the joys which fair Venus brought down to the earth. 



53 



GRAY AND BLUE. 

Dedicated to Col. R. W. Brown, of the Louisville Times. 

The rage and the chaos of battle, 
The carnage and anguish are o'er, 
The wrath and the rout of Manassas, 
The death-knell of Gettysburg's roar; 
And softly, round Nashville and Richmond, 
Descends, like Christ's mercy, the dew- 
Where sleep, till the angel of Judgment 
Shall wake them, the Gray and the Blue 

From the gray of the balm -breathing morning 

The mists of the night flee away 

Till the sun, in his orient splendor, 

Paints the vault with the clear blue of day; 

As those colors in Heaven commingle, 

O, hearts that are faithful and true! 

Blend now in affection together 

By your love of the Gray and the Blue. 

Earth wondered when fought the gray legions 

Round Johnston and Cleburne and Lee, 

When the Blue followed Grant, Meade, and Thomas 

And Sherman marched down to the sea; 

And Stuart's and Sheridan's horsemen 

In scorn smote the war-dragon 's mouth, 

A stone wall of granite the Northland, 

A stone wall of marble the South. 

Strew roses, the sweetest of Summer, 
For brave and magnanimous Lee, 
For Lincoln, the merciful victor. 
For the slain on the land and the sea, 
And the States in communion forever 
Like eagles their strength shall renew. 
And the Star of our Union shine brighter 
In the concord of Gray and of Blue. 

54 



BISHOP DUDLEY'S DIRGE. 

Not vainly you perished, O brothers! 
For the land of your deathless devotion, 
The torch-bearing maid of Bartholdi 
Is kindling with splendor the ocean. 
One flag over Northland and Southland, 
Shall rally the faithful and true. 
While ocean rolls gray in the morning, 
Or mirrors the stars in its blue. 



BISHOP DUDLEY'S DIRGE. 

Hang old Christ Church with purple, 

The colors of a king, 

In honor of the kingly soul 

Which hence has taken wing ; 

In consolation 's labor 

He fell — his Lord 's behest — 

So evening skies are purple-clad 

When goes the sun to rest. 

Paul's Bishop — "Blameless, Vigilant, 

Wise, Patient, apt to Teach," 

Careless of fame or lucre. 

All men he longed to reach; 

"Of Good Report 'mongst those Without," 

Pure, Genial, Loyal, True, 

Thus, "Brother Man," God's Bishop 

Toiled, preached, and sowed for you. 

Thus through the land toiled, preached, and sowed 

The manliest of men 

The seeds of truth, and from his dust 

Shall spring his like again; 

New Dudleys — 'tis the Master's pledge — 

Shall at his voice arise, 

For his immortal spirit speaks 

To earth from Paradise, 

And the purple robes of other kings — 

Such force a good example brings— 

Shall glorify the skies. 

55 



THE DRESS CIRCLE. 

[A ball-room mishap of crinoline days, founded on fact.] 
"When we have shuffled off this mortal coW."— Hamlet. 

"Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime"? 

Where the girls live on partridges, oysters and turtle, 
And their days fly as swift as a musical rhyme? 

If you don't it's a pity — I think you had better 
Now listen, my story is true to the letter. 

O Lulu! dear Lulu! most beautiful one. 

Whose dark locks sweep over thy exquisite face, 
As the wings of the tempest o'ershadow the sun. 

Fair fawn of the forest, thy bright dwelling place, 
Where the partridges, oysters and turtle were swallowed, 

With catsups and pickles, and fixin's more solid, 
Was graced by no damsel so charming as thou 

Or so hapless, the night I am writing of now. 

Dear Lulu, sweet angel, was just coming out, 

As they say, had just let the tucks out of her dresses, 
Had such a sly ogle, and the prettiest pout. 

And a coiffeur de Paris did up her tresses. 
So her Ma, Mrs. Browne, to give her a start, she 

Determined, one summer, to give her a party. 
The rout of the season, where her darling Lulu 

Might capture the town by her brilliant debut. 
(They rig up blood-horses with ribbons, you know. 

To make them sell quicker, when brought to the show.) 
So she sent a darky round the town, with cards to the elite, 

With "Mrs. Browne's regards and she'll be at home to-night." 

The clock struck ten, the carriages drew up before the gate. 
The ton display their quality by coming rather late. 

A crowd it was, you may be sure, of opulence and fashion. 

For Mrs. Browne had for high life what one would call a passion. 

There were satins, muslin, taffetas and laces, and illusion 

Like all the rainbows since the flood crushed in one grand con- 
fusion, 

56 



THE DRESS CIRCLE. 

And as her guests the parlor thronged, deUghted Mrs. Browne 
Felt just a notch or two above all rival Mas in town. 

O feminine, O masculine embarrassment of riches! 

For those who wore and those who longed for bifurcated breeches ! 
There was flouncing Miss Barege, and grass-widow, Madame Clack, 

Miss Creame-Cocaine, the dreamer, whey-faced, of morals slack, 
Miss Polly Prude, the finical, fastidious and precise, 

Miss Reverie, a tall has bleu with sentimental eyes, 
Miss Twitchell, always twitching, Miss Giggle with her twitter. 

Miss Dumb-Bell of the wallflower set, a most accomplished 
sitter. 
All planets of the Milky Way; as for the herd of beaux. 

Know one^ know all — mustachios, gloves, smirks, bows and 
faultless clothes. 

But for laughing and screaming and ogling and dancing, 
Coquetting and ogling and sighing and glancing, 

Madame Mazourka that night made her mark, 

As a punk that took fire at the flash of each spark, 

So high in her waltzing, so low in her dress, that 
She really left gazers very little to guess at. 

For each time that she bounded or gracefully fell — 

For where her grace bounded, sin much more abounded — 

Each curve was so plumply and gracefully rounded — 
The dullest of eyes could discern the fine swell 
Of her dress, and much more than is proper to tell. 

I've a hearty contempt — I hope nobody's hurt 

For that pitiful nuisance, a married flirt. 
Whether it wears a chemise or shirt, 
For when the green season of myrtles is o 'er 

This wrinkled-faced courtship is rather a bore. 
And the musk and the paint on an old married lover 

Don't smell quite as sweetly as newly mown clover. 

O you who are wedded, take care how you walk ! 

For the world is suspicious and people will talk, 
And spectators may say — no accounting for taste — 

No arm but a husband 's should encircle the waist 
Of a lady that 's married, in the waltz 's mad whirls, ' 

And no finger but his should disport with her curls; 

57 



THE DRESS CIRCLE. 

But back to my story — the sin of digression 
It's really becoming my crying transgression, 

But your feelings will hurry you sometimes away, 
And genius, kind reader, you know must have play. 

You pardon? Well, then, to take up the thread 

Of my story — the old folks were snoring in bed ; 
In the western horizon the moon kept her course. 

The talkers were drowsy, the singers were hoarse. 
When Lulu was strolling the cool walks among 

While her beau held her ear as she didn't her tongue. 
Sweet Venus and Cupid o'er the wide earth held reign 

And the pennons streamed gay o'er their Castles in Spain. 

O Lulu, dear Lulu! magnificent belle — 

Whose name is a charm and whose presence a spell, 
Bright star ever shining in Memory's stream. 

You were gowned on that night in the very extreme 
Of fashion, indeed quite a crinoline belle. 

You spread yourself so, and you made such a swell, 
Your dress circle being made after the pattern 
Of the rings that the telescope shows around vSaturn, 
Not whalebone or cordage, but Carnegie's best steel. 

As when you dance with her next time you can feel. 

Now, I do not blame Lulu for her fondness for dress 

It's a passion some people find hard to repress, 
And take this excuse, dear reader, I beg; 

Her grandma had left her a very fine leg- 
Acy, so having abundance of means, 

And being quite young — indeed still in her teens — 
She dressed herself up in the climax of style, 

"A miss" — in circumference — "as good as a mile." 

Well, Lulu was chatting away with her beau 
Of dances and courtships, and quarrels and so. 

When all of a sudden she made a full stop 

In her gay tete-a-tete, and screamed at the top 
Of her voice, till each sleepy-eyed maid in the hall 
Sprang quick to her feet at the terrible squall, 

There pale as the Greek Slave of Powers she stood. 
Her white lips unstained by a vestige of blood, 

58 



THE DRESS CIRCLE. 

Her arms, like a Pythoness, in agony tossed. 

As she shrieked in her anguish, "6 Lord, I am lost!" 

While footsteps fell round her as quick as the clatter 
Of a cavalcade's hoofs, each one bawling at her 

"O Lulu, my darling, pray what is the matter?" 
"A serpent is biting me under my dress!" 
"Lord help us!" burst forth in a wail of distress, 

"It's coiling around my — It's big as a rail, 

And a great bunch of rattles tied on to its tail," 

Ne'er toper saw snake from his jag or his jug 
Like this which clasped Lulu in terrible hug. 

There were sobbings and swooning away on the floor, 

Of disordered lingerie over a score, 
"Unions," "Merodes," and garters galore, 

Indeed 'twas a contretemps all might deplore! 
"A snake at a dance!" "How dare poke its face 

Into such an exceedingly improper place?" 
So the old snake in Paradise brought us to grief; 

He skulked behind Eve; Eve behind her fig leaf, 
And this great world, which it took a whole week to make, 

Went into bankruptcy, all for one snake. 

O Fashion, what follies your votaries make, 

What frauds to your bosom with rapture you take, 
'Twixt the gay masquerade and the sorrowful wake, 

One tenth is for fashion and nine tenths for mere fake. 
And maidens adorn their fair forms with a snake ; 

For earrings, for bracelets, for necklace and jewel, 
Diamonds and rubies for eyes cold and cruel. 

Sparkling and dazzling at reception and mass, 
On debutante's fingers or on widow of grass, 
O ! feminine dragon ! — how else depict her, 

When the girl of my dreams turns boa-constrictor? 
Why pineth fair woman's heart for a snake? 

Man would perish a million times o 'er for her sake. 

At last one golden youth, more bold than the rest. 

Walked up, bowed and spoke as he pulled down his vest 

"Well! crying won't help it, so pray now be still, 
They say there's a way whene'er there's a will, 

59 



IN MEMORIAM. 

I will tie up his tail in a sort of a link, 

And jerk him from under his quarters, I think," 
Dread silence fell like a spell on the air, 

Sobs hardly suppressed, inarticulate prayer, 
When cautiously groping lest he might mistake. 

And grab a — suspender instead of the snake. 
He at last found the dragon and fastened his hold. 

It was scaly and squirming, and quivering and cold, 
Like a huge anaconda writhing its fold, 

And then with a clutch that was steady and bold. 
He twisted it up in a sort of a loop. 

And jerked out— at least forty feet of steel hoop ! 



IN MEMORIAM. 

[Lieutenant Boyd Mercer, Eleventh Kentucky Infantry, U. S. A., 1861.] 

Some souls, unmoved by lust of fame or pelf. 
Pass their whole hves without a thought of self; 
No selfish schemes their high ideals smother — 
Such was thy soul, my noble-hearted brother. 
Modest in manner as a gentle maid. 
As lion bold was duty's call obeyed. 
Nor man nor devil made thy soul afraid. 
To home, to God and Country ever true. 
Like skylark springing from the morning dew, 
Thine upward, sunlit flight thou didst pursue. 
The ocean's costliest pearls he 'neath its waves. 
Blaze richest gems in undiscovered caves, 
And like the wealth o'er which the ocean rolls 
God knows the value of his purest souls. 
Citizen and Christian soldier — why lament 
A life so truly planned, so nobly spent? 
Now without taint or mixture of alloy 
Christ's soldier marches in eternal joy. 



60 




LIEUTENANT BOYD MERCER 

First Kentucky Regiment, U. S. A. 



THE SORROWS OF HINDA AND KLEINFELTER- 

"The course of true love never did run smooth." — Shakespeare. 
I. 

Maidens, say, heard ye the sorrowful story 

Of a turreted castle all mossy and hoary, 

That stood on the banks of the dark -flowing Rhine, 

Where the tall hills are clad with the grape-laden vine. 

Where the strains of the flute and the plaintive guitar 

Are echoed each night 'neath the glow of the star, 

Where the days glide as smooth as the waves of the river, 

And vSwift as the shaft from an Indian quiver? 

Oh, Heaven has showered with a bountiful hand 

All, all that is lovely and gorgeous and grand 

On the Rhine's noble valley, that beautiful land, 

Yet alas! — for the tale I am going to tell 

Is as sad as the chime of a funeral bell. 

And oft as they pause at their leisure to listen. 

The tear on the pale cheek of beauty will glisten. 

Weeping they will turn away. 

Sighing have I heard them say, 
"Of all the woes that blight us from above. 
The saddest is the pang of unrequited love." 



II. 



In a castle gloomy and old 

Once there dwelt a Baron bold, 

Rich in acres and flocks and gold; 

Sooth but he was a gallant knight. 

Fond of his lager and fond of fight. 

He was ever in the front 

Of the battle or the hunt, 

And of each struggle he bore the brunt! 

None like him could wield the spear. 

Or run down the flying deer, 

Or drain the flagons of lager beer. 

6i 



THE SORROWS OF HIND A AND KLEINFELTER. 

III. 

The Baron had a daughter 
Adored by all the swains: 
Oh, she had wealth and beauty 
And very little brains 
Her breath was sweet 
As the morning dew, 
Her tresses were black, 
And her eyes were blue. 
Her foot was cased 
In a delicate shoe, 
If I remember, a one and a half, 
Made of the finest Parisian calf, 
So instead of walking. 
Of course she flew. 
As some of my female 
Acquaintances do. 
Her food was turnips 
And cabbage and steak 
And milk and peaches 
And pudding and cake, 
Weinies and kraut and the essence of bees, 
That is to say, honey and Limberger cheese, 
Horseradish to make an elephant sneeze. 
So by high feeding 
And very little reading. 

Her waist did gradually acquire considerable diameter, 
And her apron-strings were full as long as Tennyson' 
hexameter. 



IV. 



Beneath the castle window 

Each night were heard the strains 
Of a poor love-smitten noble. 

Who lived away out on the plains. 
And walked ten weary miles each night, 

To woo the Baron's daughter. 
Who lived in the gloomy castle 

That stood by the Rhine's blue water. 

62 



THE SORROWS OF HINDA AND KLEINFELTER. 

Oh, Kleinfelter burned with a desperate passion, 
And he fixed it in music somewhat to this fashion: 

"Oh transcendental Hinda, 

Look from thy latticed window, 

As here I sadly linger 

And with a trembling finger 

I thrum the strings 
Of my sad guitar, 

Or knock the ashes 

From my fragrant cigar 
Fairest of Heaven 's handiwork, 
Sweetest of nature 's candy-work. 
Here I pledge upon thine altar, 
Love that knows not how to falter. 
Grant, oh, grant some sweet return. 
Nor my deep devotion spurn; 
Let me have thy gentle heart or 
Even a buckle of your garter!" 



Now Kleinfelter 's singing 

Was undoubtedly splendid, 
And its musical ringing 

Could not easily be mended 
It was soft and sweet and then it was loud 

As a singing saint's on a shining cloud; 
Clear as the lark 's own morning call, 
With a silvery chime like a waterfall. 
So he had scarcely uttered a note. 
When Hinda 's heart rose up in her throat, 
Her breast felt a pang and her head felt a dizziness, 
Oh, Kleinfelter 's serenade finished the business! 



VI. 

I know a maiden, 
Her eyes are black 

As the flying cloud 
Of the tempest's rack, 

63 



THE SORROWS OF HINDA AND KLEINFELTER. 

And the radiant glow 

Of their glorious fire 
Would quell and tame 

A lion's ire. 
Sometimes they brighten 

And lighten in gladness, 
Sometimes their dark depths 

Are shadowed with sadness, 
But pensive or mirthful, 
A soul flashes through, 
That will silently charm you 
And win and subdue. 
Often have I heard her play 
On the guitar some roundelay. 
And as her white hands swept the strings, 
Melody unsealed its springs, 
And her sweet voice, though low and soft, 
Rose like a seraph's hymn aloft, 
Rising and sinking in gentle swells ; 
Like a murmuring brook with its liquid bells. 
Till the vanquished soul was borne along 
On the rushing tide of resistless song. 



VII. 

But I am digressing — 

I was going to say. 
That just as Kleinfelter 
Got in good way. 
The Baron, hearing Kleinfelter's song. 
Thought he was piling it on rather strong, 
So taking along a burly old vassal, 
He quickly sneaked up to the top of his castle 
He lay down on his stomach 

And stuck his head over, 
And there was Miss Hinda 
And below was her lover. 
He gritted his teeth and he held his breath, 
And he inly vowed Kleinfelter's death. 
So jumping up and wheeling about. 
He picked up a barrel of sour kraut, 

64 



DR. JOHN A. BROADDUS. 

And frantic with rage he hurled it over, 

Plump on the head of the wretched lover. 

Of course it ended Kleinfelter's strains. 

For it mashed his skull and scattered his brains, 

And knocked the musician out of time 

Into Eternity — horrible crime ! 

So ended Kleinfelter, and so ends my rhyme. 



DR. JOHN A. BROADDUS.3 

Modest, firm, bold, and sage as Socrates, 

Two Johns in one, the Harbinger and Seer, 

He stood a High Priest by the holy Ark, 

Aspiring as the upward-soaring eagle 

Quitting the sluggish vapors of the dark, 

To drink in heavenward flight the morning breeze, 

Clear dews, and golden sunshine of the dawn. 

And moist from fountains fresh and salted seas. 

He preached with reason lucid as the light 
Which flashed o'er chaos at Creation 's birth. 
When Eden threw its splendor o 'er the night 
And the Divine Word said, "Let there be light!" 
Chasing foul phantoms from the infant earth ; 
Strange was the power of that pathetic voice 
Whose sympathy made aching hearts rejoice. 
The mellow winding of the shepherd 's pipe 
Seemed from the fruitful Mount of Olives borne 
To ears of gentle women and strong men. 

It shamed and hushed the scofi"ers' ribald scorn, 

It charmed the city 's lucre-loving throng, 

And melted all with Calvary's lofty song. 

No painted web of rhetoric he wove; 

His speech was all sincerity and love. 

But sharp and pointed as a surgeon 's lance. 

Tender his touch, and searching his quick glance; 

A living faith to every work he brought. 

And lived the simple doctrines that he taught. 

65 



DR. JOHN A. BROADDUS. 

The Man of Sorrows ever was his theme, 

Who taught by Galilee and Jordan 's stream ; 

So in the Temple Jewish rabbis heard 

The wondrous Christ-Child speak his Father's word. 

The admiring world oft tempted him in vain, 
And offered greater. guerdon than his chair. 
In posts pf honor and in golden gain, 
To him gay bubbles floating on the air. 
Far up the Mount he heard the warning cry — 
"Excelsior!" the watchword of the sky, 
The solemn mandate of Eternity. 

After long life of toil he sighed for rest, 

Like homing-dove returning to her nest 

Crooning her "La-Paloma" in her flight — 

Duty his pole-star guiding him aright; 

He leaned his faint head on his 'Master's breast. 

And his great soul was happy with the Blessed. 



66 




LEONORA 



TO LEONORA. 

"'One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
" Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes." 

— Moore. 

The troubled spell is o'er, 
The wild delirious dream of bliss is broke; 
A spirit whispered to me as I woke, 

"No more — oh sleep no more, 
For love has died upon a dart whose sting 
Sped on a feather plucked from his own wing." 



Oh, bright divinity, 
Bold and unfettered as the eagle's wing. 
Oh soul of noblest impulses, the spring. 

And chainless as the sea. 
Why didst thou lend my sky thy glorious light 
Only to quench it in a blacker night ! 

Oh, I have loved to bow 
Before thy shrine and bum rich incense there, 
Immaculate spirit of the upper air, 

Nor rose sincerer vow 
Nor sweeter wreaths in Dian's temples hung, 
When on the Paphian myrtles Sappho sung. 

Thine is a magic power, 
A power the sternest hearts to tame and quell 
Thine own to mortal arts invincible, 

And glorious is thy dower — 
Love's fire, ambition's struggle, pity's tear. 
Religion's hope, and all — save woman's fear. 

Thine is that fearful spell. 
In which the Orient poppy gardens steep 
The passer's senses in luxurious sleep, 

While dreaming all is well. 
Nor knows he that the flower's delicious breath 
Is the lethargic atmosphere of death. 

67 



TO LEONORA 

Too late — alas! too late! 
My heart once fresh with morning dews of youth, 
Dreaming that all the beautiful was truth, 

Is seared and desolate; 
Love's star is shrouded in its last eclipse 
And its fair fruit is ashes on my lips. 

With bitter grief we parted, 
On thy dear lips I breathed a last adieu 
To peace, to hope, to sweet repose, and you. 

And left thee — broken-hearted: 
And every star in heaven was wrapped in gloom, 
And earth itself became a living tomb. 

And like a mourner's wail 
Now piercing shrill, now smothered and half hushed, 
Convulsive tears and sobs all madly gushed — 

And gushed without avail ; 
For our fond bosoms bore one stricken heart 
Forever wounded by a fatal dart. 

The night wind's plaintive moan 
Sighed through the pendant branches of the trees, 
Whose leaf-harp's sweet vibrations filled the breeze, 

And the far distant tone 
Of the blue waters of La Belle Riviere 
Stole in ^olian murmurs on my ear. 

The bosom's quivering throes, 
The shuddering frame, the anguish of the heart 
Writhing with Love's immedicable dart; 

The unutterable woes 
Of those whom destiny has doomed to feel 
The agony they never can reveal — 

All these were ours — and when 
The dying night-winds ceased a while to wake 
Leaf in the wood or ripple on the lake 

A murmur rose of pain, 
Doleful and bitter as the passing cry 
Of a lost spirit in its agony. 

68 



AT HIS POST 

Mine is the agony 
To perish where Elysian apples grow, 
To parch with thirst where Eden's waters flow 

To pine — to droop — to die, 
Without one hope to ease my bosom's pain, 
To know / love, am loved, and all in vain! 

One more fond parting word, 
While all my frame with agony is shaken. 
And my torn heart of every hope forsaken. 

To its far depths is stirred. 
A word will haunt me like a funeral knell, 
God bless thee, dear Leonora — and farewell ! 



AT HIS POST. 

IN MEMORIAM, 

[Midshipman Goldthwaite, Hopkinsville, Ky., who perished with eleven 
companions in the battleship Georgia, July 15, 1907.] 

Call Up, Recording Angel, 

The roster of the dead; 
Who sleep in vaults or village graves, 

Or in the ocean bed. 
Call all alike — the wealthy, 

The humble or the great; 
Tell me how died they, Angel? 

How met their various fate? 

The Angel called out Marathon, 

And Bunker Hill sublime. 
Whose glory shall outlast 

The temples of old time. 
Myriads of true and loyal men 

In many a mighty host. 
All perished, said the Angel, 

Faithfully at their post. 

69 



AT HIS POST. 

Some to fair science martyrs; 

Some to religion's call; 
To truth and duty witnesses, 

In faith they perished, all ; 
And bright, celestial splendor 

Shone all around each ghost: 
"I died," proclaimed each pallid shade, 

"Faithfully at my post." 

Oh, not'in vain you perished, 

Goldthwaite, when fate's sad blow 
Struck down the flower of chivalry, 

And laid its promise low; 
Still, with true joy, salute we 

Your shade, oh, knightly ghost, 
And hail thee, loyal hero. 

Who perished at his post. 

Thy virtues high in heaven 

As stars forever bum; 
Long, long shall love bedew with tears 

Thy consecrated urn; 
In life's young mom you perished — 

Perished, but not in vain; 
Your deathless, bright example 

Shall cheer young hearts again. 

The trumpet voice inspiring sounds 

Along the ocean shore; 
"Fear God and His commands obey" — 

Angels can do no more; 
From the ill-fated Georgia's deck 

There booms a solemn roar;. 
With strength renewed at the sad sound 

The country's eagles soar. 



70 




MIDSHIPMAN FAULKNER GOLDTHWAITE 



RECONCILIATION. 

[Carriers' Address, wntten for the Nashville, Tenn., Press and Times, 
December 25, 1865.] 

The days have dropped, like withered leaves, 
From the dead cypress of the year, 

And Time, who neither joys nor grieves, 

Nor spares, nor pities, nor reprieves. 

Has bound the months, twelve ripened sheaves, 
Round his completed sphere. 

Dread Reaper of the centuries, 

The red strokes of whose sickle blade 

Clashed oft and harshly on the breeze. 

While in long swathes our dead were laid, 

And measured out with every blow 

That dark Olympiad of woe; 

Here, where thy dreadful bugles rang, 

With cannon's roar and saber's clang. 

And answering hell in chorus sang, 

Bidding the harvesters of Death 

Cut wider still their slippery path. 

Withhold thy fatal hand. 

And let thy crescent sickle shine 

The harvest moon of peace divine, 

And to full orb expand; 

For blood enough of kindred slain 

Has poured in streams of purple rain 

And soaked the thirsty sand 

To quench each living coal of hate. 

Assuage the fury of the State 

And reconcile the land. 



O, North! O, South! whose children claim 

From heroic sires a common fame 

More lustrous than the melted gem 

Of Cleopatra's diadem, 

Drunk up one night for Antony 

In bacchanalian revelry, 

71 



RECONCILIATION. 

Will you a richer pearl betray, 
Whose incommunicable splendor 
None but a slave would cast away, 
None but a craven would surrender? 
Tells not each winged wind some story 
Of Revolutionary glory. 
Worthy of that immortal theme 
Which once inspired The Scian's dream 
By blue iSgean's tide; 
' How Hayne, to his dear country given, 
Stepped from the scaffold up to heaven, 
Laureled and deified; 
How Lawrence dared the ocean strife — 
Breathing with pale and quivering lip 
His death cry, "Don't give up the ship!" 
Then perished in his pride. 
And Warren, in the mom of life, 
In front of battle died. 

O, Christ, whose Orient Star of Love, 
Illumed the primal Christmas morning, 
What cloud has spread its veil above, 
That we no more behold it burning? 
Shall we, despite the prayers and tears. 
Poured out for near two thousand years. 
In never-ending intercession 
For fallen humanity's transgression, 
Shall we pluck from the temple's shelves 
And trample under foot the Bible, 
Apostates base pronounce ourselves 
And Christianity a libel? 

Of what avail, if thus we err. 

Our gifts of frankincense and myrrh. 

Prayers, mummery, and holy water. 

To cleanse the air from smell of slaughter. 

And psalms, and organ chants sonorous, 

With all our damning guilt before us? 

Has sharp remorse no power to move 

The stronger agony of love 

In breasts whose suffering finds at last 

The madness of the conflict past, 

72 



RECONCILIATION. 

Which, having 'scaped the shock of steel 

In battle's fearful expiation, 

Beside the slain at last shall feel 

The glow of reconciliation, 

Over the tombs which now conceal 

The flower and glory of the nation ? 

Come where the slain, all pale and cold, 

Sleep 'neath the all-concealing mold. 

While evening's melancholy breeze 

With sad voice in the forest lingers. 

Thrumming the spray of whispering trees 

Like chords beneath a harper's fingers, 

In fitful, sobbing, plaintive tone. 

Thrilling the pained air with its moan, 

And wailing down the leafless aisles with low and dying groan, 

Let pity, warm as Love's caress, 

Strew violets in tenderness 

Above our kinsmen dead; 

And myrtles clustering o'er their tomb, 

Enfold in robes of purple bloom 

Their consecrated bed; 

And let the fresh-winged morning air 

Now waft to heaven the nation's prayer 

To spare the avenging rod. 

And weld the golden chain of love 

Between all human hearts above 

And all beneath the sod. 

No more; no more; for overhead 
The Christmas star renews its brightness; 
Its beams revivify the dead 
In garments of celestial whiteness; 
By our sad fate, the phantoms say. 
By all the griefs that wring the living, 
Cast each embittered thought away. 
And join the people by forgiving. 
Armies of slaughtered men have fed 
The Moloch fires of expiation, 
Whose blood, like Abel's madly shed, 
Joins in the fervent invocation. 

73 



OPHELIA. 

Plead ye for peace? Expect it where 
Justice is equal as the air 
And vote and count are just and fair, 
Nor seek the fruitful olive tree, 
On the volcano's breast of snow, 
While the flame-waved Vesuvian sea 
Consumes the sapless earth below. 

Redeemed from violence and fraud. 
All hail the resurrected nation; 
The Rights of Man shall be its broad. 
Deep and immovable foundation. 
And the Philanthropy of God 
The comer-stone of Restoration. 



OPHELIA 

Gaily she struck the sweet guitar, 

The maiden fair as a beautiful star; 

And her soft voice fell on charmed ears 

Like a seraph's song from the upper spheres 

Joyous and blithe is the song she sings, 

As the morning lark on his heavenward wings; 

Little the list'ners dream that rest 

Never again shall dwell in her breast; 

Little they dream, while that strain she is waking 

That her heart with a secret grief is breaking. 

Sweet were the words from her lips that fell. 
As the mocking-bird's song in the hazel dell; 
Like the honey of Hybla her words were fraught 
With sweets from the choicest flowers sought; 
Gloom from her beaming presence fled. 
Mirth and joy were around her shed; 
Little they know of the poisoned dart 
That rankles deep in her bleeding heart;. 
Little they know that her beaming eye 
Tells but a hollow mockery. 

74 



OPHELIA. 

Bright were the jewels that flashed on her brow 

As the gleam of the stars on the mountain snow, 

And the trembling lustre of costly pearls 

Beams through the waves of her golden curls, 

As with queenly step she passes along, 

The loveliest one of that beautiful throng; 

But her heart with inward grief is bowed, 

And her cheek is as pale as the dead man's shroud, 

And tears will start in her orbs of blue, 

Like a rose that weepeth with morning dew. 

A gentle heart that she once had known 

Had throbbed for her and for her alone. 

High and holy in him was her trust — 

Alas! it has turned to ashes and dust! 

Can she her sacred vows recall, 

Can she, can she forget them all? 

Never! although with an aching breast 

She ever obeys the stern behest, 

Yielding with smiles to her bitter lot ; 

Meekly yielding and murmuring not; 

The memory of departed hours 

Shall weave her garland of withered flowers, 

But the hope that cheered her soul is flown, 

And she moves 'mid the throng, alone, alone. 

Her lips may smile, but her eye is chill. 

And her laugh may ring, but her heart is still ; 

Her bosom is now the canker's prey — 

She is passing away, passing away. 



75 



DEATH OF THE SEASONS. 

Last night pealed out the dark Death-angel's cry — 
"Another year is gone!" — and from the sky 
A myriad of voices, like a river, 
Reechoed ' ' Gone ! forever and forever ! ' ' 
The deep roll of the night-wind's muffled drum 
Mourned for the dead whose lips are pale and dumb 
Within whose pulseless and unconscious breast 
Reigns the nepenthe of a dreamless rest. 

Scatter sweet flowers on the season's tomb. 
For oh, they perished in their early bloom! 
And o'er their dust this requiem be sung — 
"Weep not, for Heaven's best favorites die yoimg " 

Oh, Spring was very beautiful and gay 
When April mild and rosy-fingered May 
Rambled among the many babbling brooks 
And gathered wild flowers in their shady nooks, 
And waving them in gladness in the air. 
Scattered their fragrant dew-drops everywhere 
Beneath whose silver spray the delicate bloom 
Of Flora filled the air with rich perfume. 

Slender and gentle and surpassing fair 

Was blue-eyed Summer with her golden hair. 

Sweet-voiced as is the murmur of a dove, 

Whilst every look was eloquent with love. 

Where blooms the wild rose by the mountain spring, 

In whose clear waves the robin dips his wing. 

Where clustering berries tempt the longing eyes 

Like the forbidden fruit of Paradise, 

And the sweet mocking-bird, in carol gay. 

Enchants the listener with his wondrous lay — 

There, in the silence of her shady bowers. 

The Summer genius passed the dreamy hours; 

Death came and laid his hand upon her brow, 

And in eternal night she sleepeth now. 

76 



DEATH OF THE SEASONS 

Next Autumn came in robe of gorgeous dyes 
And stately step and melancholy eyes — 
In mien and look like discrowned Antoinette 
A queen — although the Bourbon star had set — 
Beholding with a proud, unwavering faith 
The scaffold and the officers of death, 
Mourning — not her own early doom, for she 
Knew well the hollowness of majesty — 
But grieving that the beautiful and gay 
In her bright train were doomed to pass away. 
So Autumn died, but oh, her couch of death 
Was balmy with the jasmine's odorous breath, 
And every wind-harp breathed its hollow moan 
For the sweet soul that had forever flown. 

But lo! whilst mourning for the seasons fled, 
A phcenix from the ashes of the dead 
Rises in triumph, and the new-bom year 
Round Time's vast orb begins his swift career. 
The rising sunbeams herald his advance. 
And break on every hill a golden lance; 
Heaven plants her banners at the Eastern gate, 
To greet the monarch as he comes in state. 
And the loud harps of ocean and of earth 
Resound in strains of revelry and mirth. 

Welcome to earth, thou youngest child of Time, 
Unwarped by wrong, unspotted by a crime! 
Oh, may the blooming vigor of thy youth 
Ripen in wisdom, purity and truth. 
Spare in thy flight the innocent and gay 
And scatter pleasure's garlands in their way; 
Repress the insolence of lawless might, 
And make the wrong submissive to the right; 
Uphold the patriot and strike down the hand 
That waves the traitor's sword or treason's brand 
And with the hand of charity redress 
Each form of human woe and wretchedness. 
So that the annals of all coming time 
Shall write thee as the Golden Age sublime. 



77 



NEW YEAR ODE, 1861. 

[Carriers' Address for the Louisville Journal.] 

Oh, infant year, whose newborn limbs are swathed 

And cradled in convulsion — Oh, dread Heaven, 

Unsealing o'er this land of many woes 

The Apocalyptic vials — Oh, my torn 

And bleeding country, by thy sons deflowered 

And stricken of thy God — how shall I sing 

A festal anthem on a broken lyre — 

To ears made dull by sorrow? 

From her dreams, 
With music lulled, all-queenly, and perfumed 
With odors from the Summer's lips distilled. 
The startled nation woke — awoke to hear 
Rebellion's war-cries in her citadel, 
By dark and frenzied sentinels invoked — 
Singing her dirge, like the volcanic bass 
Of -Etna's organ chiming with the sea 
When groans the Titan in immortal pangs — 
The trepidation of conflicting hosts. 
Mixed with the wild alarm of clamorous bells 
The strife — the shout — the wailing of despair. 

Time, by whose hands the mouldering dust of death 

Is shovelled in the vaults of coffined realms, 

What Nemesis insatiate still inspires 

The suicide of Empires? In her breast, 

Greece nursed the serpent faction, with her blood, 

That stung her to the heart. Rebellion's steel 

Pierced the fair bosom of imperial Rome 

By foreign foes unconquered; and the land 

Of God's own people drank the fatal cup 

Which dark dissension pressed upon her lips. 

As midnight's bell proclaims with double tongue 
One year departed and another born. 
Swift throng around me with imperial mien 
And godlike brow, and eyes of sad reproach. 
As angels look in sorrow, the great dead 

78 




Mrs. ANNIE McRAE MERCER 



NEW YEAR ODE. 

Who walked Mount Vernon's shades and Marshfield's plains, 

And Monticello's height, and Ashland's groves 

Still vocal with unearthly eloquence, 

Statesmen and Chiefs who loved their native land 

And led her up to fame. With solemn air 

And thrilling voice they point to freedom's flag 

War-rent and laced with sacrificial blood, 

By noble martyrs shed; and thus they speak — 

"O sons once named Americans, but now 

The world-mocked orphans of a nameless land, 

Why rush ye to destruction? Happier far 

Than ye the tawny tribes your fathers drove 

From the primeval forest — the red chiefs 

Who bravely perished on their hunting-grounds, 

Or passing o'er the mountains of the West, 

Went down in gloom, like nature's final sun, 

To rise no more forever. Better thus 

Than live the foul dishonor of your sires, 

Whose progeny like Lucifer of old 

Rebelled against the power that made them Gods, 

And perished in their treason. Come, ye winds, 

Swift-winged couriers of the tropic sky, 

Heralds of death and ruin — come, ye fires 

That in volcanic caverns ever burn. 

And crush pale cities in your molten jaws — 

Come, burning plagues, and ye tempestuous waves. 

Who strangle navies in your watery arms — 

Earthquakes and lightning-strokes, all earthly ills 

Which Heaven inflicts, and trembling men abhor — 

Fell bolts in God's red armory of wrath, 

With all your terrors in one stroke combined. 

Come; and in mercy blast the land with ruin 

Rather than we should see Columbia's plains 

Drenched in a crimson sea of fratricide, 

Lust, rapine, malice, treachery, revenge. 

The tall and crowning Teneriffe of crime." 

I hear a passing bell — the muffled drum 
Rolls its sepulchral echoes on the night 
Which spreads across the sky the starless pall 
Of desolation. And upon my ear 
Falls the wild burden of a dismal song 
Like that of mocking fiends in revelry. 

79 



NEW YEAR ODE. 

The Disunion Banner. 

Fiends who in the lurid gloom 
Of Hell do ply the fatal loom, 
Weave a banner of despair 
For Columbia's tainted air, 
Like the boding raven's wing 
All the land o'ershadowing. 
In the murky woof embroider 
Darkness, death, and Hell's disorder. 

On the fatal standard show 
Every form of guilt and woe — 
Murder drinking deep of blood, 
Rolling round him like a flood, 
All the fetid gall that drips 
From the land's infected lips, 
In the murky woof embroider 
Darkness, death, and Hell's disorder 

Weave ye in the magic loom 
Piles of slain without a tomb, 
Cities lit with midnight fires, 
Crashing walls and toppling spires, 
Famine's sunken, ghastly cheek, 
Outraged woman's helpless shriek. 
Hoary age and infancy 
Plunged in one wide misery; 
In the murky woof embroider 
Darkness, death, and Hell's disorder 

Let the baimer's fold be bound 
With a fiery serpent round; 
Eden's destroyer shall recall 
The new temptation, sin, and fall. 
We have changed the stripes of flame 
To the burning blush of shame. 
And the streaks of spotless white 
To the pallor of affright. 
And the stars which blazoned all 
To Wormwood in its endless fall. 

80 



NEW YEAR ODE. 

The song of treason ceased — the phantoms fled, 

And as I mused in the dark bitterness 

Of grief to this sad prophecy of woe, 

I heard a sound, as when the ocean moves 

His moist battalions to the tempest's march, 

To storm the fortress of the rocky isles, 

And hosts innumerable thronged around 

In panoply of war. From every height 

And every valley rolled the martial drum. 

And bugles calling to the gory charge 

The loyal and the bold, while streamed on high 

Gay banners glittering with the hues of heaven. 

"We come, oh, bleeding country," was their cry, 

"To beat aside the parricidal steel. 

And shield^^the^snowy breast that gave us life." 

New England's seamen swelled the rallying cry 
Along the coasts ; the Middle States replied 
From thronging marts; the echoes leaped along 
The Mississippi Valley, whose vast floods 
Throb like the pulses of the Nation's heart. 
And pale Virginia, all besprinkled now 
With War's red baptism, to Kentucky spoke; 
Kentucky, tried but faithful unto death, 
To sad Missouri called; Missouri passed 
The kindling watchword to the vast Northwest, 
Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, 
Who louder sang than Niagara's roar 
To the unconquered heights of Tennessee; 
Hoarse echoes, like the low sepulchral moan 
Of subterranean fires, disturbed the Gulf — 
The bleeding Gulf betrayed and overawed — 
Then swelling loud as an Archangel's trump, 
Or shrill winds piping o'er the stormy flood, 
It thundered back from far Pacific's coast. 

Come to the tombs by mourning millions thronged 
Beneath the oak of weeping. Glorious dead. 
Fame's cemetery holds no hero dust 
More dearly honored in sublime repose. 
Pale ashes, with a nation's tears bedewed, 
And fanned by sighs as numerous as the winds, 
The laurels that you nurture shall be green 

8i 



NEW YEAR ODE. 

And bloom forever round the precious urns 

Of Baker and Lyon. Fortune smiled 

Upon them, casting from her ample lap, 

Her lavish stores of fame and wealth and ease, 

And wooed them to repose. Though sweet her song, 

She sang unheeded. Honor, fortune, life 

They offered freely on their country's shrine, 

In the red heat and fury of the fight, 

Deeming the dearest jewels of the world 

Were nought when weighed against the nation's life. 

Dirge. 

He who led our faltering ranks 
Up the ambuscaded banks — 
He who poured his heart's red rain 
Over Springfield's stormy plain, 
Heeding not the volleys deadly 
Nor the life's blood running redly. 
Cold in death shall lead no more 
Where our country's eagles soar. 

Such, oh War, thy fearful pleasure, 
Priceless blood and costliest treasure. 
Still the victims whom thou smitest 
Are the loveliest and the brightest. 
But the martyrs shall be glorious 
When our flag returns victorious; 
Death, who seals such patriot eyes, 
Opens them in Paradise. 

As wistfully I gazed upon their graves 
A vision passed before me. On a mount 
That glowed with light ineffable appeared 
The New Year, in imperial garments clad. 
Erect and tall and God-like in his mien, 
With strength immortal in his manly limbs 
And hope and courage beaming from his eyes. 
And lo, swift breaking from the clouds, he saw 
Coming in splendor like the morning sun. 
The reunited Empire of the West, 
Swelled on the ear the ever-murmuring hu 

82 



MONODY. 

Of populous cities on unnumbered streams, 

And marts of commerce by a hundred lakes. 

The teeming fields, with varied harvests, waved, 

And tinkling bells on distant hills revived 

Sweet memories of Arcadia's pastoral days. 

Fair science led her train by every grove 

And hill and stream, and pure religion filled 

Her solemn temples with perpetual hymns 

And fervent supplication to her God. 

And from above the shades of years departed 

Sang with a voice that filled the firmament: 

"Hail, New Year, hail the noblest child of Time; 

The Power which brought the fathers o'er the flood 

Has saved the ofi"spring from the sevenfold fire. 

A Union healed shall date its life from thee, 

Redemption's golden era. From its shield 

No star shall vanish in forlorn eclipse, 

Nor exiled Pleiad chant in skies remote 

Her solitary song, nor sundered be 

The marriage bond of States, by law confirmed 

And the eternal oracles of God." 



MONODY 

On the Death of Abraham Lincoln. 

[Read at a Memorial Meeting, Nashville, held at the State House, April i6, 1865. 
Governor Brownlow delivered the address.] 

Soft breathe the vernal winds, the sky is fair, 
And April 's fragrance scents the dewy air. 
Yon Heaven looks down on earth with eyes as mild 
As a young mother's on her sleeping child, 
Jealous lest aught should break her infant's calm. 
And lulling its soft slumbers with a psalm. 
So soft, so holy, comes the forest hymn. 
From yon far hill -tops, misty, blue and dim, 
While war's discordant tumult seems to cease 
In the sweet music of returning peace. 

83 



MONODY. 

Yet where the fount of joy in crystal springs, 
Some venomed asp its rankling poison flings, 
And where the violets shed their fragrant breath 
The nightshade pours the blistering dews of death 

What bloody phantom with a brow of wrath 

Stalks in the van of our triumphal path, 

And o'er our banners flings a funeral veil. 

Till Heaven grows black and mortal cheeks grow palei 

'Twas in the halls of mirth, a gala night. 

Bright lamps o 'er joyful thousands shed their light. 

The nation 's Father sat amid the throng, 

Relaxed his brow and heard the festal song; 

He dreams not of conspiracy, nor sees 

Above his head the sword of Damocles; 

Wide opes the sepulchre its marble jaws. 

All nature seems to make a breathless pause; 

The deadly aim is made — the death-shot flies. 

And Freedom 's martyr passes to the skies. 

Oh, Statesman, Hero, Patriot, Friend, and Sire, 
Now the pale tenant of a funeral pyre, 
Whose red right hand four years has held the rod, 
The minister of Freedom and of God, 
Yet with the rod the blooming olive held. 
While the dark deluge of rebellion swelled 
And thundered round our Ark — an Argosy 
More dear than all the jewels of the sea, 
And still with outstretched arms essayed to save 
The shipwrecked seamen from the yawning wave! 
Thy love was strong as woman's — who like thee 
Their interceding angel now shall be? 

A genial wit, a homely native sense, 

Nearer to truth than studied eloquence, 

A quiet courage to defend the right, 

And leave to Heaven the issue of the fight; 

A will of adamant, which seemed to be 

The very flower of maiden modesty, 

A conscience, holding truth of greater worth 

Than all the crowns and treasures of the earth; 

A love, whose strong affections seemed to bind 

In one the happiness of all mankind; 

84 



MONODY. 

These were the jewels whose celestial flame 
Shall burn with quenchless glow round Lincoln's name, 
The virtues which shall make his memory dear 
While Justice reigns in yon eternal sphere. 

And millions shall lament, with honest grief, 

The People's friend and Freedom's fallen chief; 

The huntsman shall forget the eager chase. 

And pause to wipe his weatherbeaten face, 

The daring sailor, on the distant sea, 

Shall shed a teardrop to his memory; 

The widow's tears shall quench her cottage fire, 

The soldier's orphan moan his second sire. 

There need no glittering trappings of the tomb, 

No martial dirge, nor hearse with nodding plume. 

To tell their grief; but words devoid of art 

Show how this stroke has pierced the Nation's heart. 

Precious the tears shall be the Nation weeps, 
And sacred be the sod where Lincoln sleeps. 
His fame shall be the jewel of the West, 
Like a rich pearl on Beauty's throbbing breast. 
Mourn, O ye Mountains ! — altars of the sky — 
Fit monuments of him who cannot die; 
Mourn, loud Atlantic! let thy thunder-dirge 
Chant the sad requiem with Pacific's surge. 
Mourn, O New England ! on thy granite base. 
Mourn, Illinois, thy desolate dwelling-place; 
Kentucky, mourn ! thy second God-like son 
Sleeps in the dust, life's duty nobly done; 
Mourn, Tennessee! The Hero of the Age 
Sleeps with the Lion of the Hermitage; 
Chanted the melancholy song shall be. 
By all thy streams which hasten to the sea, 
While Nashville's echoing wall of cedared hills 
With mournful cadence all the valley fills. 



85 



WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY ODE. 

[Written for a celebration given by the young ladies of Elder Enos Campbell's 
School, Hopkinsville, February 22, 1861.] 

Hero, whose ashes sleep 
By Vernon's sacred steep, 

Sire of the free! 
To-day thy name be blessed 
North, South, East and West, 
And swell each patriot's breast 

With love to thee. 

Through tempests drear and dark 
The Union's holy ark 

Thy hand did guide; 
The ark which rode the flood 
Of Revolution's blood 
For freedom's mighty God 

Was on thy side. 

Where'er thy eagles flew 
The world our glory knew^ 

In war and peace. 
Safe 'neath the fig and vine 
Our fathers did recline. 
And field and wave and mine 

Gave rich increase. 

Oh, that to-day might yield 
Once more the sword and shield 

Of Washington! 
Then freedom's songs sublime 
Should peal in thrilling chime 
And, 'til remotest time. 

The States be one. 



86 



TO APRIL. 

[Dedicated to the Weather Bureau.] 

(Begun April 1.) 

Sweet month of blue-eyed violets and fools, 

I 'm glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet, 

While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet. 

A thousand misses in the boarding-schools 

Now do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper, 

And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper. 

The clear lake like a polished mirror glows 

In the seraphic loveliness of mom ; 

The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools, 

Waking the startled skylark's mellow horn; 

On every hand new beauties still are born, 

Till lingering sunset's amethystine blaze 

Illumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays. 

(Finished AprU 10.) 

Thus far without impediment I got, 
My sleek Pegasus on an easy gallop, 
Or ambling steady or on cosy trot 
Smooth-scudding o 'er the airy fields of thought, 
As a Venetian gondola or shallop. 
To halt with sudden bump my pencil 's brought. 
"I can not tell a lie!" (vSpring poems are "rot.") 
Now all my pretty phrases come to naught. 
It's just a shame! But then who would have thought- 
Wild polar blizzards, snow and blinding sleet 
Beat my Pegasus and benumbed his feet? 
And, most unlucky mishap for a poet, 
The brute has got the studs and will not go it. 
One solid hour of labor have I lost — 
I can't write summer songs in winter's frost. 
O April, sure you did not count the cost 
Of your confounded jag! I think you're drunk! 
Well, bluster if you want to show your spunk. 
The Weather Bureau's all turned inside out — 
But pray clear up, Miss April, or clear out! 

87 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF LEO XIII. 

Dedicated to Mrs. Mary Anderson Navarro, London. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : 

He leans upon his hand— his manly brow 

Consents to death, but conquers agony. 

— Child e Harold. 

The Eternal City, shrine of many lands, 
Slow fades; before his d3dng gaze expands 
The Golden-streeted City, not made with hands; 
Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes, 
Heaven's solemn choirs and sweet societies. 
While sobs below him the great church he trod — 
"To Caesar, Caesar's; God's we yield to God." 
Life's duty done, he ends his manly part. 
Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart; 
Amid a sorrowing people's prayers and tears, 
God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years. 

Not for the lust of luxury and beauty. 
Not for the miser's or the conqueror's booty. 
But for the still small voice of duty 
Bravely did all temptation spurn 
The immortal Lion of Lucerne. 

The Lion is at rest, 

With his awe-inspiring crest. 

In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest. 

Of all earth's mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best, 

His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross. 

Who gave mankind the Light Divine 

To save the world from loss. 

His grand life work is o'er. 

And nations now deplore 

The Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross, 

From Italy's bay-indented shore 

To where Columbia 's eagles soar. 

Is heard the voice of weeping. 

For the Lion softly sleeping, 

The Lion of the Vatican, 

Who never feared the face of man — 

88 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF LEO XHI. 

The Lion o'er whose urn 

The mounting flames of glory burn; 

Who died in duty 's harness — the Lion of Lucerne. 

He sleeps, but not forsaken, 

For the Judgment trump shall blow, 

Its blast of joy or woe. 

The nations of the dead shall rise 

And the Lion of the Vatican shall waken. 

Once in earth's Gethsemane by all but God forsaken! 

With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes, 

The kingdoms gather round the great white throne 

To hear the final sentence 

Of all who seek or scorn repentance. 

Long ere the dreadful conflagration 
Which shall consume each nation, 
Along each height or hollow shore. 
Loud shall reverberate the roar 
Which made the iron Bismarck bow 
Before the Lion's calm, majestic brow; 
Which bade the hostile cannon cease 
And harmless pave the paths of peace, 
Who walked where princely Virgil trod 
And then like Enoch walked with God. 

Be patient, then, O Zion! 

And wait the wakening of the Lion 

Be patient still, for soon 

Thy God shall grant the boon 

Of universal peace; 

And War's red banner shall be furled 

Throughout all the world. 

Paul Kruger's diamond bribe* was worth 
The ransom of a hundred kings ; 
Yet diamonds and pearls and all 
The riches of this world have wings; 
The Lion held God's treasure fast — 
Honor and truth and Heaven at last. 

*Paul Kruger, the unfortunate President of the Transvaal or South African 
Republic, offered $4,000,000 in diamonds to Leo XIII for his influence in the war 
with the British Government which overthrew his reign. The proflFer was refused. 

89 



CHIABRERA'S EPITAPH. 

Chiabrera, an Italian poet, is said to have written the following inscription 
for his tomb : 

" Friend, I while living sought comfort in Parnassus ; 
Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary." 

The setting sun shone down the Apennines, 
Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines, 
And his dark collonades of whispering pines. 

The tinkling bells of the returning flocks 

Rang through the lengthening shadows of the rocks 

And grateful coolness filled the shepherd's walks. 

The Star of Evening trembled in the West, 
Like a rich pearl on Beauty's throbbing breast. 
And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest. 

Upon his death-couch Chiabrera lay. 
Life's waning lights across his features play 
Like the last beams of yon declining day. 

And as departing day its glory shed 

Bright on the group which gathered round his bed, 

In faltering words the dying poet said: 

' ' Chill blow the gales across the sea of Death, 
Upon my brow I feel their icy breath — 
And the bright star of song forsakes my path. 

"No more Apollo's mount shall I behold — 
The rainbow mist that round its summit rolled 
Fades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold. 

"The groves are withered on Parnassus' side; 
The fields are dead — the streams no longer glide, 
And every fount by fiery heat is dried. 

90 



ELEGY. 

"All dumb and shattered lies Apollo's shell, 
Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well, 
Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell. 

"Dread Calvary! beneath thy sheltering rock 
Oh, let the gentle vShepherd of the flock 
Shield me in mercy from the tempest's shock; 

"There from the pelting storm and bitter blast, 
My weary soul its refuge finds at last. 
Behold the Cross! The pang of Death is past. 

"Parnassus! up whose steeps I long have striven, 

Thy summit, by the thunder-tempest riven. 

Stops in the clouds — but Calvary's rests in Heaven. 



ELEGY 

On the death of Captain Bacon, Kentucky Volunteers, U. S. A., slain at 
Sacraments, Ky., December, 1861. 

Oh, sacred mountain of Kentucky 's dead, 
Room in thy heart for Bacon 's honored head, 
Whose true blood streaming from his manly breast 
Shall dye with glories new thy marble crest, 
And caught by every sun upon the air 
Appeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer — 
Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land. 
From dark rebellion's impious sword and brand ; 
Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice sped 
To fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead ; 
Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part, 
Through all the land shall stir the nation's heart. 
And summon martial millions to the field 
A patriot host, the nation's living shield. 

Promethean sun ! whose early splendors kiss 
These pillars of Death 's grand Acropolis, 
Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just, 
Hardin the true, and Daveiss ' glorious dust, 

91 



TO THE LAW AND ORDER LEAGUE. 

Much-loved McKee, and gallant Henry Clay, — 
Oft as thy torch illumes the morning gray 
Touch Bacon's tomb with thy reviving fire 
And it shall answer thee like Memnon's lyre, 
With an inspiring voice whose kindling strain 
Shall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain, 
And shed his base assassin 's blood as free 
As yonder waves which hasten to the sea. 

Oh, much-loved friend, for manly virtues dear, 
Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier. 
We knew that with or on thy stainless shield 
We would receive thee from the battle-field ! 
True to Kentucky 's and thy country 's call 
Thou wert the first to arm thee — and to fall. 
The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groan 
Thrill the pained air with melancholy moan. 
While the slow river winding far below 
Whispers through all its waves the song of woe. 
And Frankfort 's echoing wall of cedared hills 
With mournful cadence all the valley fills. 



TO THE LAW AND ORDER LEAGUE. 

After Judge Bruce's Address 
At Hopkinsville, 

Take courage, ye people of order and law, 

Nor longer let Night Riders hold you in awe; 

Though your crops be destroyed, your barns burnt in ashes, 

Your women outraged, your backs scourged with lashes. 

Take courage! Remember that God reigns on high 

Who foredooms your tyrants 'neath His vengeance to die. 

When bad men conspire, let all good men imite; 

All crime must be conquered by organized Right. 

Though Satan conspire to persecute Job, 

And muster all demons which travel the globe, 

Though disease, war, and whirlwinds on all sides surround 

And the wife of his bosom be treacherous found; 

92 



TO THE LAW AND ORDER LEAGUE. 

Though Judas and High Priest 'gainst Jesus plot, 

Though Herod and Pilate His overthrow sought; 

Though King George and Lord North and base Arnold swear 

That Sam Adams and Hancock shall hang in the air; 

Though the flood shall a whole world of wickedness drown, 

Noah's Ark shall land safely on Ararat's crown. 

So virtue shall triumph, 'tis Heaven's decree, 

And God's law shall rule o'er the land and the sea 

Job sees all his losses by Heaven restored, 

Quelled Satan retreats at the frown of the Lord — 

And Cornwallis at Yorktown surrenders his sword. 

And ye citizens banded for order and law 

No more let the Night Riders fill you with awe. 

Though croaking Glenraven plays the treacherous friend. 

And croaks at the crimes which he dares not defend. 

Though he reprimands gently his infamous tools. 

His alibi G s and his Paddy McCools. 

Remember, good citizens, nor harbor one doubt 

That your vengeance is sure and that murder will out — 

That the scoundrels who whipped the bare backs of your wives 

Shall pay the full penalty down with their lives. 

Remember, Night Riders, your infamous wrong 

Was the wrong of an hour, but its vengeance is long; 

There are crimes so inhuman, 'twere a crime to forgive; 

Who scourges a woman 'twere a crime to let live. 

Your lash unresisted mangled woman's tender back. 

And till death- her avenger shall press on your track. 

Then rally, O citizens, from border to border, 

One phalanx to fight for Law, Justice, and Order. 

Kentucky has no place for the Night Rider's foot; 

What patriot tongue does not scorn to be mute? 

Remember all history repeats the same tale, 

That the wicked shall fail and the righteous prevail. 

Unite! and your deeds shall be crowned with success. 

Cheered on like old Scotland by "Bruce's Address." 

Yes; though Lucifer, "Star of the Morning," rebel, 

His doom shall be closed in the torments of Hell. 

"Black Hands," Mafias, and Night Riders, birds of one feather, 

Must go to the prison or scaffold together. 



93 



"WITH THY SHIELD, OR UPON IT."* 

Dedicated to Col. R. M. Kelly, Superintendent of the. National 
Cemetery, Louisville. 

[The loss of a shield was regarded as peculiarly disgraceful by the Greek 
soldiers. The dead were borne home upon their shields. " Return with thy 
shield, my son, or upon it," was the heroic injunction of a Spartan mother.] 

Sound, trumpet sound ! The die is cast! 
The Rubicon of fate is passed! 
The loyal and the rebel hosts, 
Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts, 
And on the issue of the strife 
Hang peace and liberty and life; 
All that the storied past endears. 
And all the hopes of coming years; 
The startled world looks on the field. 
Thou canst not fly — thou dar'st not yield — 
Then strike! and make thy foeman feel 
Thy triply consecrated steel, 
And with or on thy shining shield 
Return, Kentucky, from the field. 

Strike! though the battle's dead be strown 

O'er land and wave from zone to zone; 

Strike ! though the gulf of human blood 

Roll o 'er thee like the primal flood. 

Treason at home — beyond the sea — 

Its ally, ancient tyranny. 

Democracy's relentless foe. 

Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow; 

Freedom 's last hope remains with thee. 

Oh, army of democracy; 

Then lead thy martial hosts abroad 

In the grand panoply of God, 

And with or on thy shining shield, 

Return, Kentucky, from the field. 

Wave, banners, wave, and let the sky 
Glow with your flashing wings on high ; 

*/'This eloquent appeal stirs the soul like the soaring notes of the bugle." 

— Prentice. 

94 



"WITH THY SHIELD, OR UPON IT.' 

There's music in each rustling fold 
Sweeter than minstrel ever told; 
Oh, who that ever heard the story 
Of all our dead who fell in glory, 
Still pressing where the starry light 
Streamed like a meteor o 'er the fight, 
Till their expiring bosoms poured 
The red libation of the sword. 
Would leave Kentucky now, or thrust 
Her beaming forehead in the dust. 
Where treason 's reptiles writhe and hiss 
Like fiends shut out from Eden's bliss? 
Better the freeman 's lowliest grave 
Than golden fetters of a slave; 
Then with or on thy shining shield. 
Return, Kentucky, from the field. 

If bribed by lust of power or gold 
Thy country 's welfare thou hast sold, 
Iscariot-like thy name shall be 
In Freedom's dark Gethsemane; 
Disgrace and fell remorse shall plow 
Eternal furrows o'er thy brow; 
By angels, men, and fiends abhorred, 
LUce Judas who betrayed his Lord. 
Outcast at home — across the sea 
Shunned like a leper thou shalt be. 
No spring shall slake thy burning thirst, 
The fire shall shun thee as accursed 
Day shall be cheerless — no repose 
At night thy swollen eye shall close — 
Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye, 
Curse God in black despair, and die! 
Kentucky, hast thou son so base, 
Thy fame unsullied would disgrace? 
Attaint his blood, disown his race. 
His line, his very name efface. 
Then charge! thy grand battalions free 
From all attaint of treachery — 
Charge on thy foes ! make all the air 
Vocal with freedom 's holiest prayer, 
And with or on thy shining shield. 
Return, Kentucky, from the field! 

95 



CONFIRMATION AT ST. ANDREW'S. 

State of the "Dark and Bloody Ground," 
The trumpet peals its final sound 
Down every mountain height arrayed 
Comes thundering on the long brigade; 
By every valley, pass, and river, 
Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver; 
Shame to the faithless son who falters 
When impious hands assail their altars, 
And fill each fount of happiness 
With waves of woe and bitterness; 
The dead their august shades present 
By Frankfort's Battle Monument; 
Not now their souls can be at rest. 
Though in the Islands of the Blest — 
"Remember us," their voices cry, 
"When comes the hour of conflict nigh," 
And with or on thy shining shield. 
Return, Kentucky, from the field. 



CONFIRMATION AT ST. ANDREW'S. 

[To Agnes, Louisville.] 

I send this morning, Agnes dear, 

A white and fragrant flower, 
Emblem of maiden Hope and Love, 

In Confirmation's hour, 
O, may the blessings which descend 

This moment on thy head 
On thy pure virgin heart and soul 

Like precious fragrance shed. 

I in life's evening gloaming walk. 

Thou in the morning bright. 
Night's blossoms I unfolding see, 

Thou the Auroral light — 
Yet all my heart in sympathy 

Attends thy morning dreams, 
For well I know the bitterness 

Of life's delusive streams. 



96 



CONFIRMATION AT ST. ANDREW'S. 

A morning calm, a storm at eve, 

At mom we joy, ere night we grieve: 
So when the falling April showers, 

Bringing the joy of birds and flowers, 
'Neath the quick brush of golden sun 

Catch rainbow colors one by one. 
The liquid gems quick fade away 

In dismal vapors cold and gray. 

Lo, JuHet's girHsh bridal bed 

With funeral flowers is quickly spread 
Ere the brief marriage vows are said. 

Sleeping in Capulet's vault below 
Her wedding night with Romeo. 

Not "True Love's Course" alone, but Man's, 
Never ran smooth since Time began. 
Even 'mid the thunder shouts of friends 

McKinley's breast the bullet rends. 

Wisdom, Wealth, Pleasure, Glory, Power, 

Made Judah's king rejoice: 
Song, dance, and wine flowed free, — "Now comes 

God's judgment!" spoke a voice. 
For earth is vain and life is frail 

Since first the world began; 
To fear and serve the living God 

Is the whole lot of man. 
Drink then, sweet Agnes, from the Fount 

Of Christ's Eternal Truth, 
Till He shall bear thee o'er Death's stream 

To everlasting Youth. 



97 



THE CHRISTMAS FLOWER. 

On a Florai. Card. 

Far sweeter than the rose 
Which all the year round blows 

On Cashmere's fragrant bosom, 
Is the fair flower which grows 
Amid December snows; — 

'Tis friendship's Christmas blossom. 

Its loving arms expanding, 
The Christmas cross is standing, 

The guide-post of the ages. 
To point to realms of glory 
And charm with simple story 

The children and the sages. 

Red rose and pallid lily, 
Pansy and daffodilly, 

Chrysanthemum and myrtle, 
Around the cross are clinging 
With wooing and sweet singing 

Of nightingale and turtle. 

The frozen Arctic splinter 
Shot from the bow of winter 

Will lose its power to harm us. 
While dreams of childhood's Christmas, 
'Twixt heaven and earth an isthmus. 

In nightly visions charm us. 

The angry gale may shatter 
Sweet Cashmere's rose and scatter 

Its leaves o'er vale and river; 
The Christmas flower shall thrive 
As long as Love shall live. 

Forever and forever! 



98 



TO THE SOLDIERS OF GENERAL DUMONT'S COMMAND. 
Nashville, Tenn., 1862. 

Ye soldiers of the Union 

With holiest valor fired, 
To shield the land whose sacred cause 

Your father's souls inspired — 
Strike at yon black rebellion. 

Like a thunderbolt of dread. 
For the safety of the living 

And the memory of the dead! 

Bright Banner of the Union! 

By beauty's fingers wrought, 
Around the world thy lesson 

Of glory has been taught. 
It tells of deathless battle-fields, 

To fame and freedom dear, 
And speaks of peace and happiness 

To man's enraptured ear. 

Bright altar of the Union ! 

Around thy spotless shrine, 
We swear disunion ne'er shall touch 

Thy ofi"ering divine! -' ;J- 

For our dead would sleep dishonored 

And the living have no hope, • 
If in rebellion's starless night '' ■ 

Our land were doomed to grope. 

Charge, soldiers of the Union, 

In truth's eternal might, 
Ye strike not for the lust of power. 

But liberty and right. 
The present and the Future plead — 

The past full well ye know — 
Strike home as your forefathers struck 

And Heaven will guide the blow ! 

*0n a flag presentation by citizens of Nashville to the troops. 

■ ,'. 99 



THE TWO GORDONS. 

Dedicated to Mrs. Anna M. D. Gordon, Medical Missionary at Mungeli, India. 

"Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 

Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task has done, 

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. 
Golden lads and girls all must, 
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust." 

— General Gordon's epitaph, from "Imogen's Dirge," in 
Cymbeline. 

General George Gordon, Khartoum, Egypt, January 26, 1885. 
Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908. 

In the mystic land of Egypt, 

In the streets of old Khartoum, 
O'er the grave of martyred Gordon 

Does the rose of England bloom ; 
By Mahdi, the false prophet. 

Borne down in hopeless strife. 
The Christian hero Gordon 

Laid down his priceless life. 

Thou Circean Cleopatra, 

Of legendary Nile, 
Luring to death the Roman Prince 

By thy pernicious smile 
A wine-inflamed and sensuous girl. 
Frenzied by passion's giddy whirl, 
Thou once dissolved and drank a pearl 
Inflamed by bacchanal applause, 
Unworthy of a sovereign's cause. 
Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found — 
The pearl of boundless price — 
The healing drink had cleansed thy soul 
Like Magdalen's sacrifice, 
Egypt redeemed had hailed the morn 
To a new life forever bom. 




Rev. E. M. GORDON 

His wife, Anna M, D. Gordon, Missionaries at Miingeli. India, and daugiue 



THE TWO GORDONS. 

And in thy glittering diadem 

Had shone the Cross — the hallowed gem 

Worn bv the Babe of Bethlehem, 

Nor Africa had sent her fettered slaves 

To fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves 

From the mystic land of India, 

In the flower of stalwart manhood, 
Another Gordon came — 

Counsellor, preacher, teacher — 
The foster son of Hopkinsville, 

Fearless and without blame; 
No gem in India's richest mines 

Shot forth a purer flame. 

India's best civic honors 

He calmly put aside — 
"I serve the Man of Galilee, 

Who upon Calvary died. 
Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prize 

From Him shall me divide, 
For I am bidden a chosen guest 

To the Lamb's holy marriage feast 
To stand by Heaven's own bride. 

And I wear the rose of Sharon, 
As I stand by my Saviour's side." — 

O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son. 
Priest, teacher, the poor leper's friend. 

Is thy eternal pride! 

A yawning gulf once sundered 

Rome's Forum — 'twas Jove's will ; 
Quoth the high priest, "Rome's dearest gift 

Only the gulf can fill!" 
Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed. 

In panoply and plume, 
Down the dark gulf — it closes up. 

And thou hast met thy doom ; 
High in Olympic halls great Jove 

For the martyred youth makes room. 



Immortal sacrifice ! thy fame 
Shall fly o'er every sea; 



lOI 



THE TWO GORDONS. 

The loud seas shout to every land : 

"Great souls are more precious than golden sand. 

Or all the pearls on the ocean strand, 

And they sparkle as gems on God's right hand; 

Death swallowed Curtius, but death itself 

Is swallowed in victory." 
And Curtius and the Gordons twain, 
And all who in duty's strife are slain, 

Shall live immortally, 
And the harps of love shall sound their praise 
In the choir above 

In sweetest melody. 

Immortal is the sacred prize 

Of him who for his fellow dies. 

Leap — not to death — a leap for life 

Was thine — far, far above the strife 

And stress of Earth's uncertain life — 

Ungrateful oft to truest worth. 

Too oft the rabble's hate or scorn or mirth. 

Curtius! thou bearest not the sword or shield 

Of bloody war, but to the psalms 

Of poets' harps thou wavest the palms 

Which demi-gods in glor)'- bear, 

Walking the green Elysian fields 

Forever free from toil or care, 

Chanting a soul-inspiring song, 

While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng. 

Listen, O missionary brothers, 

The mighty Christian brotherhood 

Who toil in surplice, gown, or hood. 

The rulers of each English-speaking nation 

Proclaim the watchword of Salvation; 

Monarchs become Evangel -nursing mothers; 

The doves that perch 

Within the belfry of the Church 

Turn carrier-doves; their rustling wings 

Fan every breeze with song; soft sings 

Victoria's low and gentle voice. 

In tones which make mankind rejoice; 

I02 



THE TWO GORDONS. 

Of India's Empress, England's Queen, 

Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene. 

Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm's foundation. 

Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation: 

England's star-bannered colony. 

Home of the upright, brave and free. 

The States so wisely ruled by Washington — 

Like England lit by never-setting sun — 

Send from Columbia's far-winding shore 

The peaceful words to Hague of Theodore; 

The Rose of Sharon's fragrant hedge 

Shall guard our borders, surest pledge 

Of universal lasting peace, 

And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease. 

From Khartoum's streets red with his blood 
Went Gordon's soul to greet his God ; 
Long had he served his Master well — 
What mattered where or how he fell? 
Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way — 
Go easily to Eden's day, 
Death's trackless passage through the air 
Goes straight to Heaven from everywhere. 
Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum, 
Glorious alike the good man's doom. 
Wide is Christ's many-mansioned room. 
And endless Eden's fadeless bloom. 
Rescued by Calvary's mighty cost — 
Shall not one precious soul be lost. 



Sleep quietly, O pilgrim guest; 

Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest. 

Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed : 

The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast, 

So summer twilights slumber in the West. 



A kindly voice and tapping at the door 
Salute him in the early morning ; 
Lovingly spake woman's urgent warning — 
"Refresh thee for thy journey — the time is brief. 

103 



THE TWO GORDONS. 

Too brief, alas, for us ! but on that shore 

Where time is counted by the clock no more 

Thou art divine and Death's sharp shock is o'er — 

O the dread silence and its bitter grief! 

Speak low — thou canst not wake him — knock no more! 

For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore. 

He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes, 

Sealed to Earth's scenes, open in other skies, 

High in his Master's Court in Paradise. * 

Love's magic lyre is mute, 

But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice. 

Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute. 

Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice. 

The accents of his tuneful tongue 

Sounded like harp by angel strung 

To melodies of Eden sung, 

On which his ravished audience hung: 

Chautauqua's white and fluttering salute 

Shall greet him nevermore — that wondrous voice is mute. 

Far India's pangs and perils now are o'er; 

The fordless midnight torrent's threat'ning roar, 

Plague, famine, cobra's fang and tiger's leap. 

In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep, 

Confront the intrepid soul no more 

Nor vainly menace him with scath 

As he pursued the Galilean path 

To help the friendless sick or stanang poor. 

For India's wretched succor to secure ; 

Blessed Virgin, see another son ! 

Like Him of Calvary his course has run ; 

Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife. 

The applause of eager listening crowds. 

Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds, 

Are naught to him God calls from earthly strife 

To rapturous peace of Eden's blissful life. 

Two nations in one common grief 

Lament the Gordons twain ; 
Both perished in the flower of life, 

Swift-stricken, but not in vain; 
One in the storm of battle, 
One in his quiet room — 

104 



THE WESTFIELD HOME. 

Clasp hands o'er your untimely slain, 
Hopkinsville and old Khartoum. 
Ye both have found eternal fame, 
Through magic power of a noble name. 

Now face to face, and hand in hand, 

They talk in blest repose, 
'Neath skies which know no deadly heat, 

Nor winter's bitter snows; 
In the opulence of Eden, 

Where Life's shining river flows. 
On the verdant banks of the River of Life, 

Where the tree of Calvary grows. 
Where Christ Himself is Gardener, 
Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner, 
And the sweetest flower in Heaven's bower 

Is Duty's thornless rose. 

June 3, 1908. 

THE WESTFIELD HOME. 

(Dedicated to Mrs. Grover Cleveland, "Westfield," Princeton, N. J.) 

The clamor of the clans is overawed, 
To mourn the dead made perfect with his God. 
Yet mourn we not the statesman's death alone, 
His hearthstone's glory far exceeds a throne. 

Though crowned with civic honors is his name, 
Husband and Father have a dearer fame; 
Glory attends the leader to his rest, 
But most she mourns the man who knew him best. 

Nor swiftest wind, nor farthest ocean's foam. 
Visits a spot so dear to man as home; 
O, you who mourn an upright President, 
Mourn with a stricken wife in her lament. 

105 



THE WESTFIELD HOME. 

Lament a loving husband, nobler name 
Than King or Czar or Emperor can claim. 
Love, not oppression, built for her a throne — 
The tribute, gladly paid, was love alone. 

She needs no hollow pomp of heraldry ; 
God gave the wife the greatest majesty. 
Pure as Madonna, whose celestial blush 
Glows in the tints of Raphael's magic brush, 
Gems of the heart and jewels of the mind 
Enriched the wife and all her acts refined, 
And with a native majesty endued 
"America's uncrowned Queen of Womanhood,"* 
For Home is ever woman's grandest sphere. 
Whose fruitful virtues make her memory dear. 
While vice and ruin curse the falling land. 
Where childhood lacks the mother's plastic hand. 

Through many changing years of good and ill, 
The name of Westfield shall be honored still. 
Pure homes compose the country's best defense. 
The strongest, promptest, and of least expense. 
And round its coasts a surer guard will keep 
Than camps or forts or navies on the deep. 

* Honorable James A. McKenzie, late eloquent Congressman from the second 
Kentucky district, thus beautifully characterized Mrs. Cleveland. 



io6 



THE HARP IN THE AIR; 

OR 

A NIGHT WITH GERARDI IN SEELBACH'S ROOF- 
GARDEN. 

(A Family Epistle from a Girl full of "Grace" to "Big Sis" 
in Cherokee Park.) 

Dear Sij; — 
You're losing fun galore, rusticating just at present, 
Although fresh eggs and buttermilk and countr)'^ fare are pleasant. 
Music and mirth are in the air — not razors keen and sharp — 
'Tis the touch of old Gerardi, a-twanging on his harp. 

Love rages in his silver flute ; love pines upon his viol ; 
Love pleads his cause with eloquence which lists to no denial ; 
And he or she who will not bow to Cupid's charming mother, 
I set him down a dullard — if you praise him, you're another. 

The crowds keep sailing upward upon the elevators. 
And the boys are very, very small and the girls all sweet potatoes; 
There are taffetas and mousselines, and laces and illusion. 
Like all the rainbows since the flood, crushed in one grand con- 
fusion. 

Gerardi's high on Seelbach's Roof, with harp and flute and fiddle; 
Women divine crowd thickly round, and the devil's in the middle. 
Did you ever hear a harpist like the Florentine, pray tell me? 
Like some sweet mocking-bird he soars, and his notes with rapture 
swell me. 

The moon and stars shine bright aloft; "on such a night as this" 

Lorenzo fled with Jessica, and kisses rhymed with bliss, 

"As far as Belmont" — this hanging bower hath treasure 

Of beauteous girls whose voice and glance are redolent of pleasure. 

The waiters hurry, skurry, with ring and clink of glasses, 

But the sparkling wines flow dimmer than the laughing eyes of 

lasses. 
And the myriad golden planets which glitter in yon skies 
Are eclipsed by eyes which soften at Gerardi's melodies. 

107 



THE HARP IN THE AIR. 

Sore heart of baffled hopes, against consolation proof, 
Hast thou found life's gilded web of rotten warp and woof? 
Drink deep of the nepenthe of woman's witching tongue, 
And hear the Florentine repeat the songs which Petrarch sung. 

He culls the flowers of Paradise and squeezes their aroma 

With "Kentucky Home" and "Hearts and Flowers" and heavenly 

"La Paloma." 
The very stars stoop down to kiss this old Italian wizard, 
While I — I just feel weak and faint and hollow round the gizzard, 

I soar aloft among the stars, inhaling the aroma 
Of the silver songs of Florence and Madrid's "La Paloma," 
And "Love Me and the World is Mine" in melody divine 
Breathes from Gerardi's harp-strings like bouquet of Roman wine. 

And Weber's "Invitation" — he pours it like old wine — 
"Come right on in, oh stranger! the water's very fine!" 
And oh! my willing soul would stay 'mid girls and song like this 
And dream and sigh itself away in everlasting bliss. 

And there, within my vision's range, I see a bearded "Colonel," 
With jingling spurs — he fears no peers — it is the Courier-Journal. 
He mounts his foam -flecked war-steed, so spirited and gay; 
He's going for a whirl to-night, around the "Milky Way." 

He sings the old camp-meeting songs of Democratic Zion 
And Salvation Army melodies in praise of Billy Bryan. 
And from New England's silver springs to the glaciers of Alaska 
He calls on all to march behind bold Billy of Nebraska. 

I guess he'll skim its richest cream for Democratic butter, 
While many an unhorsed rival lies cussin' in the gutter. 
His paragraphs are golden lamps which flare around a palace, 
And he pours the wine of genius from an overflowing chalice. 

Strong-limbed, sound-winded "Dark Horse" — he's "bearded like 

a pard" — (Good-bye, old Pard!) 
An expert he in "sharps and flats" — the match of old Gerardi; 
Both artists, those old boys, "by gum! " of copious variety — 
Age can not wither, nor custom stale, their infinite — sobriety. 



io8 



DEDICATION HYMN. 

Sung at the reopening of the Methodist Church, Hopkinsville, Ky. 
January 31, 1902. 

Jesus, this earthly shrine once more 

Opes wide in majesty; 
The temple of our hearts anew 

We consecrate to thee. 
Redemption's gates wide open swing, 
All hail, thou GaHlean King! 

Faith laid the eternal corner-stone, 

Hope built aloft the tower, 
And Love shall call thy children, Lord, 

At worship's solemn hour. 
Redemption's glorious song they sing. 
All hail. Life's re-awakening Spring! 

Here shall the Gospel's splendor light 

The Christian's upward way, 
From mortal to immortal life 

Unto the perfect day. 
The flowers and fruits of love we bring. 
All hail, Life's re-awakening Spring! 

Bring, Holy Dove, to this pure shrine 

The olive-branch of peace. 
The perfect fruits of righteousness, 

Love, joy, and rich increase. 
Through Heaven's blue vault her armies'sing. 
All hail. Life's re-awakening Spring! 



109 



LYING IN STATE AT PRINCETON. 

What means this sudden hush of grief, 

O, brother Americans? 

This solemn silence, deep though brief, 

'Twixt the mustering of the clans — , 

Twixt Denver and Chicago — 

The shouting of the captains 

And the thunder of the bands? 

Some for Taft are shouting 

And some for Bryan cheer; 

Both pause to weep for the mighty dead 

At Princeton on his bier. 

The solemn shadow of a pall 

Darkens each great convention hall, 

While patriots, and spoilsmen, too, 

The great quadrennial fight renew. 

All bring their wreathes of laurel leaf 

With tears of deep and honest grief; 

Roosevelt and Bryan both in reverence stand 

Beside that coffined form, once mighty in the land. 

Shout, patriots and partisans. 

Each for your favorite son. 

But the people mourn with unfeigned grief 

For the chief whose race is run ; 

No message has he for the Senate, 

No office to give away. 

But seldom the living wield the power 

Of him who is hfeless clay — 

It is as if the sun went down 

In the splendor of the day. 

Mourn, O, Venezuela, 
With long and loud lament. 
Lay in the dust thy beaming brow 
And weep with vesture rent; 
Remember how he stood for thee. 
Prepared to strike the blow. 
Teaching to South America 
The wisdom of Monroe: 

iro 



LYING IN STATE AT PRINCETON. 

"Europe's houses of royal blood 
Who claim a throne divine 
Shall forge no chains for freemen 
Upon Columbia's shrine." 

Champion of all the sons of toil, 
He crushed the Anarch's serpent coil, 
Made dark sedition quake with awe 
And taught it reverence for law. 
In cottage, court, or Senate hall, 
He held one rule — Be just to all. 
But still his heart-felt, chief desire 
Centered around his household fire, 
Where loving children, honored wife. 
Dear idols of domestic life, 
Diffused a cheering fragrance round 
And made of Westland hallowed ground. 

"Four years more of Grover!" 

Was once a campaign song. 

The battle-hymn of millions 

In cadence loud and strong; 

Sang you, O minstrel, "Four years more"? 

Would you build a cage for the eagle to soar? 

"Four years more of Grover!" 

History shall proudly tell 

He won and wore his laurels well; 

"Four years more" — is all then over? 

Is all this anxious toil and strife 

But the short span of an infant's life? 

Upon its nurse's lap an hour to dandle 

And then — alas, the pity! Out, brief candle! 

O friend, you do your manhood wrong, 

You do the noble dead one wrong. 

This just man's, this wise statesman's Hfe 

Is nobler than the mimic strife 

Of jesters in a Carnival, 

The painted clowns in mimic brawl, 

With wooden swords and buffoon song, 

With grinning madness rife. 

Driving the hopeless suicide 

To poison or the knife. 

Ill 



LYING IN STATE AT PRINCETON. 

I dare not look upon this form, 
From which the breath has fled, 
And say no life again shall warm 
The dust of Cleveland dead. 

But the high recording Angel 

Sublimely calls above, 

In eloquent words of love, 

"A longer and a nobler date 

Is the man's who at Westland lies in state, 

For Fame proclaims him truly great, 

Far, far above all earthly fate — 

The tumult and dust of mortal fate. 

The verdict of posterity, 

Written on a people's heart, shall be: 

' ' No brief Olympiad can measure 

His fame who is a nation's treasure. 

And Cleveland's years in Heaven shall be 

A blissful immortahty." 

And from the far heights of the starry sky, 

Higher than Roman eagles fly, 

Comes the sweet echo, "Immortality!" 

And golden comets blazing through the spheres 

Of Heaven's illimitable years 

Repeat the echo — "Immortality!" 

And in my ears still ringing seem 

The dulcet measures of a dream — 

"Virtue shall never die." 

In the pure gleam of God's own eye 

It slakes its thirst from the clear stream 

Of Immortality. 



1X2 



IN THE MORNING. 

[Annie McRea, Paducah, 1902.] 

I looked at the hills in the morning, 

Sweet valleys lay smiling between. 
Then I lifted my soul to the Blessed, 

Whose love in His mercies are seen. 
The sun brought a flush as of roses 

To the green earth, and Heaven so blue, 
But a cloud hid the beautiful sunHght, 

And the sparkle died out of the dew. 

I prayed in my heart to the Savior 

That His love might illumine my way, 
That the sunshine and joy of His presence 

Would brighten each wearisome day; 
That strength for each duty be given. 

And each action be prompted by love. 
Till at last by the brightness of Heaven 

I should dwell with the angels above. 

The joy that to me has been given 

In language can never be told. 
And my dream of the glory of Heaven - 

Is of Christ in the gateway of gold; 
And I pray that no cloud may o'ershadow 

The faith that my heart holds as true, 
Like the darkening clouds in the morning. 

When the sparkle died out of the dew. 



113 



OCT 9 1808 



